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*1 







WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 





“‘Why, yes, I have every right,’ he said, raising the palette knife.” 

[Page 186.] 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


BY 


JULES CLARETIE 

OF THE ACADEMIE FKAN9AISE 


J 


TRANSLATED BY 

MARY J. SAFFORD 

I 



ILLUSTRATED 


NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
1911 




Copyright, 1911, by 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 


Published April, 1911 


The French edition of this book is called 
“L'Obsession (Moi et L 1 Autre).” 


©CI.A286616 


DEDICATION 


Would you like romances of a new kind, my dear 
Madame? Wonderful romances, in which the truest 
incidents appear the most improbable? Open the 
books in which the scientists relate what goes on in 
the human brain. 

A sound mind or heart must be in a sound body. 
The most astonishing journey, the one that surpasses 
in discoveries all the volumes of the explorers and the 
works of the inventors of aeroplanes, is the journey 
around the human body. And you may be sure that 
all the incredible things which people tell you about 
human beings with two personalities, and about the 
wonderful discoveries concerning the third eye which 
is lacking in the modem man, are scientifically true. 
Science is in pursuit of the impossible. It will at- 
tain it. 

Meanwhile, Romance sees, foresees, announces, 
prophesies. And it is the right of Romance to divine 
and foretell the future, especially when its divinations 
or its researches rest upon facts. 

So read this book, in which the dream is made of 
positive fact, and the romance of eternal truth. 











CONTENTS 


PART FIRST 

PAGE 

1. — Dr. Chardin 3 

II. — Two Lives in One 11 

III. — The Marriage of Andk£ Fortis 35 

IV. — The Attack Returns 47 

V. — Is it Insanity? 60 

VI. — The Awakening 69 

VII. — The Duty of C^cile Fortis 82 

VIII. — A Scientific Interview 96 

IX. — The Malady Returns 117 

X. — The Game of Cards 128 

XI. — The Madman 139 

XII. — An Affair of Honor 149 

XIII. — After the Attack 154 

XIV. — Two Unexpected Visitors 165 

XV. — The Two “Manners” of Andr£ Fortis . . .181 

PART SECOND 

I. — The Laboratory 191 

II. — Dead Eyes 198 

III. — Unknown Things 204 

vii 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

IV. — The Light of Hope 213 

V. — The Unconscious Self 217 

VI.— The Third Eye 226 

VII. — Malebranche’s Leg of Mutton 242 

VIII. — The Other’s Masterpiece 247 

IX. — To Kill The Other 260 

X. — The Death-Struggle of Andr£ David . . . 269 

XI. — Experiments 277 

XII. — The Recovery 283 

XIII. — Mortuary Letter 293 

XIV. — The Grain of Sand 309 

XV. — Disappearance 317 

XVI. — The Statue of the Living Dead 323 

XVII. — The Apotheosis 331 

XVIII. — And Life Goes On 349 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

PAGE 

"‘Why, yes, I have every right,’ he said, raising the 
palette knife” Frontispiece 

“He apologized for this revelation . . . which, to 

C6cile, was something incredible, sinister, mad” . . 64 

“‘Is it thou!”’ 86 

“Andr6’s thin hand passed over his brow with the familiar 

gesture” 122 

“He beheld as if they were apparitions the bronze Tritons 

in the empty basins” 146 

“These two strangers were the seconds of some unknown 

adversary” 168 

“The little man’s terrible black eyes sought in the dusk for 

Fortis” 204 

“Dr. Chardin and his former patient were talking of the 

man whose bust had just been inaugurated” . . . 348 




























»* 







PART FIRST 



I 


DR. CHARDIN 

Several patients, who had come at the consulta- 
tion hour, were waiting in Dr. Chardin’s large 
parlor on the Boulevard Haussmann. Buried in arm- 
chairs, impatient, sullen, or timid, they maintained 
the bored silence of prisoners brought to a judge’s 
anteroom. Two sad-looking old ladies had brought 
a wan little boy whom they scolded gently when he 
coughed. A pretty young woman, evidently nerv- 
ous, feverishly turned over the leaves of magazines 
and illustrated books lying on the table. There was 
a fat man with a puffy, apoplectic face, and, in one 
corner, with his legs crossed and his hat on his knees, 
a thin young man, of fashionable and refined appear- 
ance, whose eyes roved from the paintings on the wall 
to the trees in the street, whose yellow leaves and 
half-stripped branches could be seen through the 
windows. 

Occasionally the door from the parlor into the 
doctor’s office opened, and a tall, thin man in a black 
frock coat appeared on the threshold. A pointed 
3 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


head was seen above a lean, full-shaven face; the 
tall, slender body made a beckoning gesture, mechan- 
ical as the movement of a semaphore, one of the 
patients rose and disappeared into the doctor’s of- 
fice, and the door closed noiselessly upon some confi- 
dence or affliction. 

The young man, who was the last comer, was 
thinking that this long waiting in the doctor’s par- 
lor resembled other halting places of misery in our 
daily lives. The eyes of the patients rested with a 
sort of jealous anger on the others who were to en- 
ter before them. One would have said that those 
whom the doctor summoned were the spoiled chil- 
dren of fate, who were taking time and life from 
the others. The young woman restlessly opened and 
shut again the bindings of the well-thumbed books, 
which had been handled by many fingers, while the 
tips of her little feet beat a tune upon the carpet. 

“What’s the use of being in a hurry?” said a 
neighbor to the young man. “Everybody gets there 
in his turn.” 

Yet this philosopher, a middle-aged army officer, 
had but one idea, to avoid leaning back in the arm- 
chair in which he sat, in order to escape contact 
with its back. He sat very erect on the edge, regard- 
ing with a sort of pity those who let their heads touch 
against their chairs. When his hand grazed the arm 
4 


DR. CHARDIN 


he quickly wiped it. “They don’t know,” he said to 
himself. “They might catch the disease that makes 
you bald. Ah, disease is everywhere. You may say 
indeed that the microbes watch us. A speck of dust 
inhaled is perhaps the entrance of death.” And he 
kept repeating, “Why hurry? One always arrives.” 

The doctor’s waiting-room gradually became empty. 
The two ladies in mourning had taken in the little 
child, the apoplectic man had rushed towards the 
door, and — after the one who had worried about 
microbes — the stylish and charming young woman, 
drawing her fur stole gracefully around her shoul- 
ders, had entered the office, smiling and brave, as if 
she were going to meet her sweetheart. The young 
man, left alone before the canvases which had such 
an attraction for him, moving from a Diaz to a 
Ziem, awaited his turn; while the servant, opening 
the door which led into the room, occasionally intro- 
duced new patients, who took the places of those 
who had gone in before. 

Dr. Chardin’s office hours were always crowded. 
This bold innovator was already as famous abroad 
as in Paris, and was perhaps even more appreciated 
in America and in Russia for his works on nervous 
diseases and the life of the brain. But he was not 
content with this specialty, wide and far-reaching 
though it was. He followed up at the same time 
5 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


active researches in the most different directions, 
proceeding on the belief that only the big ideas and 
principles matter, and that the man of to-day ought 
to know everything and try to define everything 
about the entire universe. People told wonderful 
tales of Dr. Chardin, as of a sort of legendary being 
— tales of unhoped-for cures, made without noise or 
announcement in the papers. He had discovered the 
marvels of liquid air; he had penetrated the secrets 
of the human body with rays of light almost at the 
same time as Roentgen; he had perfected Firsen’s 
apparatus for curing lupus by light, finding recov- 
ery in the famous red room where other rays de- 
voured and carried off skin diseases. The scientific 
world was deeply interested in Chardin’s researches 
into the curative properties of Curie’s radium. But 
the doctor, who did not belong to any school, ad- 
mitted no visitor or witness into his laboratory at 
Montrouge, avoiding reporters as other people sought 
them. 

While the young man was watching the passers- 
by, the parlor filled again with new patients. The 
office door opened, the doctor’s bald head appeared, 
the long, thin arm made a beckoning gesture, and 
the young man entered. 

Before an immense desk covered with papers and 
books, with Japanese bronze crabs for paper weights, 
6 


DR. CHARDIN 


Dr. Chardin, whose pale, impassive face, with its big 
features, suggested a head carved from the meat of 
an immense nut, rested his elbows on the blotting 
pad, while his gaze bored to the inmost soul of the 
man before him. His gray eye, keen and sharp as 
a needle, became uncomfortable for the man who 
was enduring his glance. It was a sort of human 
ray as penetrating as a cathode one. The young man, 
whose dark eyes lighted up a wan face framed by a 
black beard, examined with anxious curiosity this 
man whose look searched and explored his mind 
like a probe. 

“Well, sir, will you kindly explain to me your con- 
dition as briefly as possible? The trouble is evi- 
dently some nervous ailment.’ ’ 

The patient was a tall, well-made, fine-looking fel- 
low, who did not look in the least like an invalid, and 
it needed the doctor’s trained eye to perceive the in- 
visible defect. 

“Yes, Doctor,” said he, a little disconcerted, “and 
a very unusual one. But you have a great many peo- 
ple in your waiting-room, and I fear that my story 
will be long. On the other hand, you will see pres- 
ently that I cannot defer my visit, and that you can- 
not put off your decision to another day. I will ask 
you to be so kind as to hear me with patience. The 
others — ” 


7 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


4 ‘You have come in your turn, sir. The others 
will wait for theirs. What is the matter with you ? ’ ’ 

“As I have told you, Doctor, it is a very strange 
trouble. Anyone except you would take me for a 
lunatic, and would learnedly demonstrate my insan- 
ity. I am ill, undoubtedly; but — you may subject 
me to all the tests you like — I am not a madman. 
You will tell me that all lunatics assert that their 
minds are perfectly sound. I do not say that in re- 
gard to myself, please observe. On the contrary, 
there is a lesion in me. I have come to put my case 
before you, not asking you to cure me instantly, but 
first to advise and afterwards to cure me.” 

“I am listening,” said Dr. Chardin, whose gray 
eyes never left the dark ones of the speaker. 

“First of all, Doctor, you should know who I am. 
Here is my card.” 

“Andre Fortis. The artist?” 

“The artist.” 

The doctor smiled — and the coming of the unex- 
pected smile on his frigid face was charming. Then 
he added a rapid, graphic, and just comment upon 
the beautiful, mournful landscapes exhibited by 
Fortis at the last Salon, and went on gently: 

“Your canvases certainly proceed from a vision 
that knows how to seize, and an art which knows 
how to express. You are a poet; but, judging by 
8 


DR. CHARDIN 


your work, your brain is perfectly formed. I won’t 
say as much for all your brethren. Let us proceed. ’ ’ 

“Doctor,” said Andre, smiling in response, “since 
your preliminary impression is so favorable, it puts 
me more at ease in making a confession, which, I 
hope, in spite of its singularity, will not change your 
diagnosis. I have told you that I am not mad. But 
my morbid condition renders me as unfortunate as 
if I were. I am a being whose personality at cer- 
tain hours, and for a considerable length of time, is 
doubled. ’ ’ 

“You mean — ?” 

“I mean that suddenly, at the moment I am least 
expecting it, while walking, talking, working, in the 
studio, or at table, a longing for sleep seizes upon 
me; I fall into a slumber without any cause, and I 
then become — you are not going to believe me — yes, 
I become a different man, a totally different man, 
a man whose life is unlike the first one’s, who has 
his own opinions, his own ideas, his own thoughts — 
which are not mine — a man who exists within me and 
who cuts into my usual life to begin and continue 
another existence, suddenly, unexpectedly, almost 
destructively. So in this second life, which gives me 
in reality a second consciousness, I am entirely unlike 
my usual self, and living necessarily with the same 
people, keeping the same body, the same voice, the 
9 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


same movements, I must evidently appear to them 
incomprehensible and abnormal, since this double life 
transforms me into two persons contained in a single 
man. Bear in mind, Doctor, that I should never even 
have been able to understand my condition, since I 
remember my second life only when the sleep sur- 
prises me, if an old family friend who died six 
months ago, Dr. Burke — ” 

“I knew him. He was an excellent man.” 

“If Dr. Burke had not explained what took place 
within me, and how a sudden sleep might throw me 
into another existence utterly different from my own, 
leaving me to return to the first one without even hav- 
ing, I repeat, any recollection of what I have done, 
said, or thought during the second state — Isn’t second 
state what you call that sort of incredible somnam- 
bulism which takes possession of me and, for a cer- 
tain time, makes me no longer myself? I am He, a 
being whom I do not know, who is not I, but The 
Other?” 


II 


TWO LIVES IN ONE 

The physician kept his eyes fixed on the young 
man, and seemed to be studying his gestures, the tone 
of his voice, and the varying expression of his face, 
which, just now quite composed, seemed gradually to 
grow anxious, and then wrathful, as if a third per- 
son had introduced himself between these two men, 
and Fortis, divining the intrusion, was irritated by 
it. 

“I am convinced, Doctor, that you believe me per- 
fectly insane.” 

“No,” said the physician; “but you are ill, and 
you have just described a very extraordinary case.” 

“Unique,” said the artist, vehemently, “yes, 
unique.” 

Dr. Chardin shook his head, smiling. 

“That’s an instance of human vanity. It is found 
even among the sick. Especially among the sick. 
Nothing in Nature is unique, sir. Everything has a 
precedent. Science knows few, and has noted and 
studied only five or six cases identical or comparable 
11 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


with yours; but this matter of the double conscious- 
ness and the dividing of the personality is well known, 
even classic. I regret to deprive you of an illusion, 
but you have had predecessors. One famous case 
which was observed and reported is in all the works 
on physiology and psychology, the story of Felida.” 

“Felida?” 

“You do not know it? If you open a book about 
hypnotism — and I advise you not to do so in your 
present nervous condition — you will find related at 
length, repeated, examined, the story of the young 
woman in Bordeaux who lived two existences in one. 
She had a husband and children, and lived a double 
life. She was sad while she led one of her two lives, 
gay when she returned to the other, to the amazement 
of the scientists who had her under observation. A 
charming, highly learned man, a Professor in the 
Faculty of Medicine of Bordeaux, whom I can still 
see on one of his visits to La Salpetriere, slight, 
thoughtful, modest, conversing well, listening still bet- 
ter — Doctor Azam, who has studied deeply into 
hypnotism — has signed his name to this extraor- 
dinary observation of Felida. Felida was a hyster- 
ical person. Don’t take the word in the meaning 
commonly given. You are nervous, and nervousness 
is the hysteria of men. If the phenomena which you 
describe to me are correct — your precision indicates 
12 


TWO LIVES IN ONE 


that they are — yon are a masculine Felida. How old 
are you?” 

“Twenty-nine.” 

* 1 Have you any relative of eccentric character 
among your ancestors? Think carefully.” 

“Not one,” replied the artist. 

“At what age did your father die?” 

“Sixty-four. He was a robust man. A cold 
caught in coming out of the theater carried him off . ’ ’ 

“Your mother?” 

“My mother died young. I scarcely knew her. A 
smiling face, a crayon portrait by Chaplin, are all 
that is left me of her.” 

“And is there nothing in the family traditions that 
recalls to you any unusual person ? ’ ’ 

“Nothing.” 

“Yet there must be some ancestor to whom you 
owe this neurosis. In us always lives or relives some 
unknown ancestor who reappears and imposes upon 
us his defects or bestows his genius. Did you have 
any shock, or fright, during your childhood?” 

“None,” the young man replied. 

“Search your memory well.” 

“It is useless to try to remember, Doctor. I evoke 
nothing, I recall nothing. ’ 9 

“Well, causes do not remove effects. And it is the 
effects which must be combated.” 

13 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Andre Fortis looked the physician steadily in the 
face, then, after seeming to hesitate a moment: 

* ‘ Combated, agreed. But, ’ ’ he said slowly , 4 ‘ cured ? 
Can there be a cure?” 

‘ 4 There can always be a cure,” said Dr. Chardin, 
positively. 

“But Felida? That Felida whom Dr. — ” 

“Azam!” 

“But Felida? Has she been cured?” 

“She has lived, I tell you. She has been a wife, a 
mother, and perhaps is living still.” 

“Cured?” Andre repeated, emphasizing the 
word. 

“People can always be ill again,” answered the 
physician, in the same firm tone in which he had 
spoken of the cure. 

An abrupt gesture from the young man accented 
the reply. 

“I have not the right to be ill again, Doctor.” 

“Why?” 

“Ah! why? why? I am to be married to-morrow. 
That’s the trouble.” 

There was an expression of such wild excitement 
in the artist’s eyes, that the physician, until now ob- 
serving a neuropathic patient, wondered if he might 
not be in the presence of a lunatic. But with singu- 
lar precision, as if he were answering the doctor’s 
14 


TWO LIVES IN ONE 


mute anxiety, nay, his very thought, the young man 
hastened to repeat: 

"Once more, do not think me wholly mad. 
Troubled, yes; alarmed, yes; apparently forced 
toward an abyss, striving to draw back, and unable 
to do so, yes. This is why I have come to consult 
you, to confess, in a fashion, as I have told you. 
As to having my full reason, I possess it entirely; 
I am really I; and besides, for a long time, I have 
reconquered this personality, and that is what has 
enabled me to begin, without remorse, the love ro- 
mance which will end, or which should end, to-mor- 
row by a marriage. I worship the young girl who 
will be my wife. She loves me. I have an in- 
dependent fortune, and my brush would make me 
almost rich, if I were harassed by the necessity for 
working. We have every chance of happiness be- 
fore us, but on one condition, that this dividing of 
my personality does not render impossible, absolutely 
impossible, the new existence which I am going to 
create, and which will be my salvation. In short, if 
this other Ego who is not I — really, Doctor, it seems 
as if I were talking like Sosia in Moliere’s “Amphi- 
tryon” — does not throw himself across my life, my 
joys, my fireside, and change into a hell what ought 
to be for me the most delightful, the most ardently 
desired refuge.” 


15 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Andre stopped, anxiously questioning Dr. Char- 
din’s keen eyes. He was like a man awaiting the 
sentence of a judge. 

Before pronouncing it, the physician asked farther 
questions : 

“In what way does this second state into which 
you enter begin? Is there any indication or sensa- 
tion — what we term the aura — that warns you of its 
approach ? ’ ’ 

“Yes. Didn’t I tell you? Generally a sort of 
lightning flash, a luminous and persistent zigzag line, 
passes before my eyes; objects appear either striped 
with light or encircled like an aureole, a halo — or 
else there is a sudden drowsiness, an invincible desire 
to sleep, a heaviness of brain which is not disagree- 
able, no, on the contrary, pleasant, attractive, as 
though something sweet and happy was buried in the 
darkness. Then I emerge from this vague half 
slumber or these dazzling lights to find myself again, 
to awaken, no doubt, in this second state and become 
the other person, to put on, if I can express myself in 
that way, the livery and the ideas of another, to be 
The Other, and to continue, in this state, the new ex- 
istence which has nothing in common with the former 
one. But I have already told you this. I beg your 
pardon, it is the obsession.” 

16 


TWO LIVES IN ONE 


“ Is it a considerable time since you have been in 
this second state ?” 

‘‘Yes, Doctor, yes. Two years. And Dr. Burke 
even assured me that I was cured.” 

“He was right. In such a case the suggestion is 
very powerful. Besides, Burke might perfectly well 
tell the truth. It is very possible that you are cured 
— very possible/ ’ 

A ray of light flashed into Andre Fortis’s eyes, 
which were riveted upon the physician’s. 

“Then, Doctor, this marriage? This marriage is 
to take place to-morrow — ” 

“Well?” said Chardin coldly. 

“There is no objection to it? I have no reason to 
fear that a sort of phantom will interpose between 
me and my happiness, take my place, and expel me 
in a way from my own existence ? ’ ’ 

“I must above all tell you, and repeat to you, sir, 
that what you fear is not possible. You must be 
penetrated, saturated with this belief. You must 
drive away all anxiety. You must persuade yourself 
that you have been dreaming, and that the nightmare 
is gone. You understand, persuade yourself thor- 
oughly, absolutely. You come to consult me at a 
peried in your life when it is difficult to draw back. 
It is to-morrow — you said to-morrow?” 

17 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


•‘To-morrow at eleven o’clock at the office in the 
second ward. At noon at Saint-Roch.” 

The doctor remained thoughtful, pondering, hesi- 
tating, biting his lips. He had divined the grief of 
this soul in distress, the bewilderment of this spirit. 
He felt that he was confronting an inscrutable 
mystery. 

Master of a human destiny, he had the power over 
life and death. One word, one single word would 
become a sentence. 

“To-morrow?” he said. “And this young girl 
loves you?” 

“Deeply, I am sure of it, as I love her myself.” 

Then the physician slowly pronounced the words: 

‘ £ Good Heavens, sir, if you had come to consult me 
two months ago, I should have advised you to reflect, 
I should have placed you under observation, and my 
opinion would soon have been definite. But you 
come at the hour when the happiness and also the 
reputation of a young girl are at stake, to question 
me, while stating that your own physician, who has 
studied and cared for you, pronounced you cured. 
You embarrass me. Were you engaged when Dr. 
Burke died?” 

“No.” 

“Did he have your confidence when your love for 
the young girl whom you are to marry began?” 

18 


TWO LIVES IN ONE 


“ Yes, Doctor. And as I expressed my grief, a very 
natural anguish, I have told you that he reassured 
me. A regular life, a deep affection, a profession that 
I love — he firmly believed that I could brave the 
future, and that the past, the detestable past, was 
in truth the past.” 

“I wish it may be so,” said Dr. Chardin. 

Then, seeing that Andre Fortis had turned slightly 
pale, he added very quickly : 

“And I believe it, since he said so. Dr. Burke was 
no ordinary physician.” 

4 4 Then ? ’ ’ asked the artist, whose voice choked as he 
put the question. 

4 4 Then between the certain scandal, from which 
some irreparable misfortune may spring — ” 

4 4 That is also certain, Doctor. Yes, if you tell me 
not to marry to-morrow, I shall return home, write 
my farewell letter, and kill myself.” 

4 4 That would be an absurdity,” said the physician. 
4 4 But it is the follies which are always most eagerly 
committed in life. I was saying to you that between 
a misfortune — and this folly would be one which 
might perhaps open the door to many others — be- 
tween a misfortune and a risk, or, what is better, 
a hope, the least tragical solution should be chosen. 
You will give me your address. Whatever may hap- 
pen, you will return to see me, and you will be able, 
19 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


if necessary, to jot down on paper for me — for me 
alone, of course — your sensations, your anxieties, if 
you have any, if you foresee the awakening of that 
Other , as you call him. If he reappears in your life, 
which I do not believe — you hear, look at me — ” and 
the doctor plunged his gaze like a bistoury into the 
young man’s eyes — “which I do not believe” — he em- 
phasized the words imperatively, dictated them like 
an order — “which I do not believe, you will hasten at 
once to inform me ! And we shall be masters of the 
situation ! ’ ’ 

“Really?” said Andre Fortis, as if the words were 
a cry of deliverance. 

“Really!” said Dr. Chardin firmly. 

“Ah! Doctor, Doctor, Doctor! You are saving my 
life!” 

“I am convinced of it. You are capable of having 
already loaded your revolver.” 

The artist burst into a little nervous laugh and, as 
if startled — not by his act, but by having it thus cor- 
rectly divined — said: 

“Yes, it is true! What can you expect? I wor- 
ship my fiancee. To lose her seems impossible. I 
cannot resign myself to it. What is a bit of lead in 
the brain?” 

“Be certain that that is not a remedy,” said Dr. 
Chardin. 


20 


TWO LIVES IN ONE 


He had risen, holding out his hand to the young 
man : 

4 £ Come ! And have confidence ! * ’ 

“And thank you, Doctor!” 

Then as Fortis made a movement to place the phy- 
sician’s fee on a comer of the desk, Dr. Chardin 
stopped him: 

“No, no. Later. The point in question here is a 
cure. We will arrange that when I tell you it is 
accomplished. And it is you, yes, you, at the proper 
hour, who will tell me so.” 

“Ah! Doctor!” cried the young man, “ there is 
someone worthy of higher admiration than the artist 
who sells the illusion of color and scenes; it is the 
man of science who bestows happiness.” 

“Well, then,” said the physician, “I will retain 
the title, dealer in happiness. Come, I wish you hap- 
piness, Monsieur Fortis. And say to yourself: ‘I 
am happy,’ as you will repeat: ‘I am cured.’ To 
believe ourselves what we wish to be is perhaps the 
only certain way of having what we desire.” 

Andre Fortis ran lightly down the doctor’s steps, 
and made his heels ring merrily on the pavement. 
He walked erect, his head held high, inhaling deep 
draughts of air. Life seemed brighter, or rather be- 
came possible. The dry leaves that had fallen from 
the plane trees whirled rapidly before him, like mes- 
21 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


sengers of joy. At the edge of the horizon, amid 
the pearl gray tint of November, there were bits of 
blue sky, the tender blue of Correggio, which opened 
like women’s eyes. Sunshine appeared, then van- 
ished, glowing on the slate roofs and the tall white 
houses. The air was very mild and spring-like, one 
of those periods in the melancholy summer of Saint- 
Martin, when landscapes and persons possess the en- 
joyment, though already impaired, of things which 
are about to die. 

To Andre Fortis, on the contrary, it was a joy just 
beginning. Two hours before, he had anxiously en- 
tered the elevator which was to convey him to Dr. 
Chardin’s apartment; now, the consultation over, he 
descended, treading with the steps of a victorious con- 
queror or a liberated prisoner. 

Life seemed to him beautiful, the passers-by ap- 
peared joyous. Shakespeare standing on his pedestal 
— Shakespeare, the poet of deep passions and woeful 
follies — seemed to say: “Cast far from you the Doubt 
that kills, repeat to yourself the opposite of Hamlet’s 
words: Hope and live!” 

Live? The artist only asked to live. The blood 
of youth was throbbing hotly in his veins. The 
visions of Art gave him beautiful dreams. Land- 
scapes were to him like living poetry, which he fixed 
upon canvas with the joy of a creator; springs smil- 
22 


TWO LIVES IN ONE 


ing with all their whiteness, or the tears of autumn 
with their showers of golden leaves. What! He had 
a future of glory before him, and suddenly, gliding 
into his personality like a thief in the night, another, 
The Other , would come to snatch from him all his 
dreams, substitute new thoughts for his own ideas, 
stop the life which was opening triumphantly, hap- 
pily. A stranger slipped within him and became him- 
self. Andre put on like a costume a new personality, 
and in this costume felt stifled, bewildered, as if 
cased in a suit of iron armor, too tight and too heavy 
to wear. 

Dr. Chardin had just told him that the intruder’s 
yoke could be shaken off, this moral armor, as 
weighty as the instruments of torture in which 
patients were enclosed in former days, could be 
broken! The physician, in a word, had restored to 
the despairing man that excuse for living — hope! 
Andre Fortis, in a joyous mood, was mentally thank- 
ing the sky, the trees, the leaves, the entire frame- 
work of his happiness, associating them with this in- 
toxication of the escaped convict. 

Yes, if Chardin’s verdict had been different, he had 
resolved to die. Rather than write to Mademoiselle 
de Jandrieu that he renounced, for unaccountable 
reasons, the honor and joy of marrying her, he would 
have lodged a bullet in his head. This was not the 
3 23 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


impulsive temptation of the suicide, it was a resolu- 
tion formed after reflection, the mature deed of a 
man who does not know how to escape from a false 
position. And, thank God, he was coming out of it 
very naturally ! The young girl whom he loved 
would become his wife on the morrow, and Dr. Char- 
din, like Dr. Burke, had said that The Other could 
be driven away, expelled, confined, or nailed to the 
threshold of the happy home like an importunate 
guest or a bird of evil omen. 

Marry Mademoiselle de Jandrieu! It was the 
union Andre desired. A romance which, in its ten- 
derness, would have been the simplest and most com- 
monplace in the world, if the fear of the frightful 
future had not crouched in the background, like a 
living sorrow seated by the fireside. Andre Fortis 
had met Mademoiselle de Jandrieu at Trouville. A 
friend presented him to the parents; the father, an 
elderly gentleman, a retired general, who had 
formerly been wealthy, but whose estates, with their 
ravaged vines, no longer produced their former in- 
come; the mother, a charming, ever smiling woman, 
shy and religious, who worshiped her only daughter, 
and had trained her soul. The accident of walks, 
proximity at table, games of tennis, conversations, 
then the sort of seashore intimacy succeeding the bows 
and shaking of hands on the board walk had gradu- 
24 


TWO LIVES IN ONE 


ally drawn the two young people together ; and these 
meetings, under the eyes of Monsieur and Madame 
de Jandrieu, gave rise to a deep and sincere affection. 

Nevertheless, Andre had maintained an absolute 
discretion in his relations, and the uneasiness caused 
by his condition imposed an anxious reserve. Yet, as 
if Mademoiselle de Jandrieu ’s influence had been 
specially tranquilizing, very soothing, he had never 
experienced near her — an extraordinary thing — any 
of the pangs that had formerly gripped him, any 
dread of the coming of The Other. The frank, clear 
gaze of Cecile de Jandrieu gave him the sensation of a 
limpid lake, whose depths he could have seen. He 
compared it with the blue waves of Lake Geneva, on 
which the young girl’s thoughts (he smiled at the 
notion) floated like swans. 

She was tall, slender, pretty, very fair, with a little 
nose, pink ears, and the languid grace of an English 
girl. Her mother was Irish. Gifted with the soul of 
an artist, a musician, she was also a painter — oh! 
quite without pretension — and this taste, a passion for 
water colors, had attracted her to Fortis. She had 
particularly admired in the last Salon the Stream des 
Vaux de Cernay, into which the landscape artist had 
put so deep an expression of melancholy, the water 
dashing amid the rocks, the mournful trees, like life 
amid daily hardships. At least Cecile had seen this 
25 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


in the canvas. We perceive in a landscape chiefly 
what we have within us. 

Though somewhat shy, like her mother, Mademoi- 
selle de Jandrieu had shown her water colors to 
Fortis. More than an amateur’s talent was apparent 
in these studies of the seashore ; varied sketches of a 
bit of the strand or of cities — according to the chance 
of travel — the solitudes of Port-Royal, the deserts of 
la Crau, the country of Mireille, the canals of Venice, 
the ideal land of Ziem. And while criticizing the 
young girl’s pictures, like a professor correcting and 
praising in a studio, Andre Fortis exchanged with her 
the ideas, memories, sensations experienced while gaz- 
ing at these visions here realized, some sunset on the 
lagoon, some gray olive wood in Provence. 

Nature and what she inspires is like a touchstone 
which attracts souls. It was discovered that the two 
young people had ideas in common upon many sub- 
jects, and that often the same landscapes, the same 
hours of the day, brilliant or sad, had inspired the 
same reflections in these two human beings who did 
not yet know each other. In this place she had 
thought what he himself had thought in that same 
spot. It was perfectly simple, and that seemed 
strange to them. At once strange and charming. 

Sympathy thus began. Mademoiselle de Jandrieu 
found in the artist a sort of delightful guide, new 
26 


TWO LIVES IN ONE 


ideas which interested her, the fraternity of admira- 
tion which leads to tender confidence. With Andre 
it was love — a love composed of radiant joy and dis- 
quietude. For it was vain to tell himself that these 
apparitions of an unknown being in his life, this 
dividing of his personality which had seized him re- 
peatedly in his existence, belonged entirely to the past. 
The memory and apprehension of this strange 
neurosis returned to him, not distinctly, but with the 
vague, troublesome images that beset you after awak- 
ing, when the nightmare still leaves the mind af- 
fected, as a bad meal leaves a bitter taste in the 
mouth. 

He recalled the first attack of this peculiar malady. 
It happened when he was a boy of fifteen, on some 
holiday, on leaving a concert in which the maledic- 
tions of Schumann’s 4 ‘Manfred,” the demoniacal 
or divine voices of the Byronic score, had excited his 
nerves, his superficial emotion. He felt a pain in his 
temples, dazzling flashes of light passed before his 
eyes. Benumbed, half asleep, he followed his com- 
panions without saying a word, then, after a few 
minutes of this drowsiness, his lashes lifted, a totally 
different expression flamed in his eyes, and he made 
remarks to his friends that amazed them, wholly un- 
like those of the morning, the previous hour. He had 
in truth become a different person, really and visibly 
27 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


a different person. And his father, who was then 
living, called in Professor Charcot, then Dr. Adam 
Bnrke, an old friend of the family, and asked them : 

‘ ‘Is my son insane?” 

He was not insane. The attack ended after a few 
days, and Andre became himself again. The phy- 
sicians had both pronounced the same name, diag- 
nosed the same affection. It was the case just re- 
called to Fortis by Dr. Chardin. The double 
consciousness of Felida, coming from a double ex- 
istence, normally or in the second state — the phrase 
was Dr. Azam’s — this double consciousness also di- 
vided the personality, the body, and the brain of 
Andre. 

There was — without any mental malady — a singu- 
lar, incredible halving, which interested Charcot, and 
which Burke tried to cure. The physician even 
firmly believed that he had cured him, and Monsieur 
Fortis, the father, had the consolation of dying with 
the assurance of knowing that his son was delivered 
from this menace when, at the age of manhood, Andre 
relapsed three times into the grasp of the malady. 
Three times he had felt his temples pressed, seen the 
preliminary flashes of light before his eyes, expe- 
rienced the almost agreeable drowsiness, enveloping, 
lulling, which drew him, made him, as it were, glide 
into slumber. 


28 


TWO LIVES IN ONE 


Three times he had been “ another,” living an un- 
foreseen life under the same name and with the same 
face. Yes, this fantastic phenomenon was produced. 
Andre, to avoid the eyes of his friends, took a jour- 
ney to Italy, carrying his box of colors and his 
brushes, and in a species of somnambulism, continuing 
his dream for months, he made notes, sketches, fin- 
ished pictures in this abnormal condition whose 
existence no traveling companion, no museum guide, 
no stranger could suspect. His intelligence, speech, 
reasoning — but it was a new reasoning very unlike the 
artist’s usual opinions — remained perfectly intact. 

And this was the result produced, a result, which 
might appear incredible, cause people to cry out 
against folly or mystification, if science was not 
present to affirm the reality even of the mysterious, 
and to prove the improbable. Andre Fortis, awak- 
ened from this sort of annihilating dream, read in 
his notebooks, found in his portfolios, saw on his 
canvases thoughts, notations, landscapes which were 
his, pictures and ideas born of his reflections and his 
labor, yet which he did not know. 

Everything that he had thought, sought, found 
during these interludes of his personality, filled him 
with astonishment, dazed him. 

For — omnipotent nature has these ironies — nothing 
could be more different than the art and the reflec- 
29 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


tions of Andre Fortis during the distinct periods of 
his double life. The Other was extravagant, carried 
away by every novelty, variable, and in constant ex- 
citement. The somewhat melancholy gentleness of the 
young man, on the contrary, was the charm of his 
gestures, his voice, his glance. 

It was this very gentleness which had slowly at- 
tracted Mademoiselle de J andrieu, inspired confidence 
in the general and her mother, a gentleness that 
seemed to have become the very character, the only 
mood of the young artist, a gentleness that was found 
shading, like a light, silvery mist, his usual works, 
peaceful visions which sometimes, without imitation 
or effort, rivaled the tranquil evening of the villages, 
the plains, the hills of Cazin. The sadness Andre 
felt while thinking of his condition, of the menace 
of this confiscation of his personality by another, was 
melted — a layer of snow hiding the sweetness of prim- 
roses — beneath the gaze and the influence of the young 
girl. 

At first timid and hesitating, Andre had allowed 
himself to pass into confidence. He no longer hoped, 
going through life like a man threatened with being 
forced, from time to time, to enter a prison. And a 
chance meeting in summer, a child’s smile, the caress 
of a woman’s voice, restored a little trust. He went 
hurriedly to consult Dr. Burke. 

30 


TWO LIVES IN ONE 


“Can I be married? Am I insane ?” 

“You are not insane. You are a sick man, my dear 
boy. And, the second condition through which you 
have passed no longer reappearing, you are a cured 
man. ’ ’ 

“Cured? You would affirm it? You will swear 
it?” 

“I do not swear. I believe. I believe it firmly. 
And especially I order you to believe. You are you. 
Your personality belongs to you. You are free.” 

This was somewhat like the prescription, the com- 
mand of Dr. Chardin. 

“Free to love, to succeed, to be a husband, a 
father?” asked Andre. 

“Free to control your destiny,” Dr. Burke had re- 
plied in the full plenitude of his conscience and his 
confidence. 

Then Andre had given himself up without resist- 
ance to his love for Cecile. It really seemed to him 
that henceforth nothing could disturb his tranquillity, 
destroy his happiness. He felt young, full of health, 
full of confidence, smiling at the future. Dr. 
Burke’s opinion was not one of those which can cause 
weakness. And, encouraged by Madame de Jandrieu, 
he asked, he dared to ask — after a final interview with 
the doctor — for Cecile ’s hand. 

The engagement lasted three months, Andre having 

31 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


hired a studio at Ville-d ’ Avray in order to be nearer 
the Jandrieus, who, on returning from Trouville, were 
spending the first weeks of the autumn at Marnes. 
The sudden death of Dr. Burke, due to embolus, had 
terrified the young man for a moment. He sincerely 
loved the old physician, who had cared for him since 
he was a little boy. Besides, Dr. Adam Burke was 
the confidant of his suffering, the imperative master 
who ordered him to hope, to believe. In losing him, 
Andre lost the great, sincere support of his existence, 
and distress, a dismayed distress, for a moment took 
possession of his mind. He again felt surrounded by 
darkness. The choruses of Manfred, with their 
Satanic sonorousness, came back to him like the echoes 
of a sinister past. He had before him the spectacle 
of The Other. A glance, a smile from Cecile drove 
away these birds of the night. And then he remem- 
bered, repeated his old friend’s words: 

“I command you to believe. You are free. You 
are yourself.” 

The dead physician still spoke to him. He did be- 
lieve, he hoped. He dreamed. He allowed himself 
to be lulled, charmed by love and life. Everything 
had disappeared, everything was vain, everything was 
dead. There was nothing but loving and being loved. 

Then, at the last moment, doubt and fear had seized 
upon him. To-morrow he was to marry Mademoi- 
32 


TWO LIVES IN ONE 


selle de Jandrieu, to-morrow Cecile, the embodiment 
of charm and candor, would be his own. He would 
smile at this virgin face. He would bear toward the 
unknown future this young girl who, from the depths 
of her soul, had said the evening before, while lifting 
her brow to his kiss: “All my life is yours, and I 
am very happy !” To-morrow? Terrible anguish 
again seized him at this thought, and he feared the 
iron circlet would again press his temples. 

Then he thought of Dr. Chardin. He remembered 
what Burke had said of him: “A master. The 
master. ’ ’ 

He rushed to the physician’s office as if it were a 
last hope. Had he the right to condemn an exquisite 
creature like Cecile to live henceforth with a being 
marked by an indelible blemish? Had not Burke, in 
his affection, deceived himself? Had not the physi- 
cian, to save, or attempt to save a man, lied in say- 
ing: “You are free!” Must not this liberty lead to 
a deception, a sinister revelation, bordering on in- 
sanity ? 

And in the bewildered apprehension of his mind he 
thought of the happy, loyal family, the father agi- 
tated at the idea of seeing his daughter depart, the 
smiling, resigned mother, the young girl who saw on 
her finger the wedding ring, and was trying on her 
white robes for the morrow ! His resolution was 
33 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


formed, distinct and absolute as a sentence. If Dr. 
Chardin hesitated, lie would not. Better a blood- 
stain on the bridal robe, than the bite or the kiss of a 
madman. 

But only a few words from the famous scientist re- 
stored to Andre, in the fullness of youth, the faith 
suggested by the dead physician. He was free to 
shape his life in his own way. He was free to hope, 
he did hope. And the plane trees, with leaves al- 
ready withered by the autumn, outlining their par- 
tially bare branches against the blue of an Italian 
sky ( He had seen, The Other had seen such skies in 
Parma) seemed to him a sort of halo of gold, a nimbus 
around the fair hair and radiant smile of his fiancee. 


Ill 

THE MARRIAGE OF ANDRE' FORTIS 

It was exquisite — that last evening when, alone in 
the little drawing-room, while Monsieur and Madame 
de Jandrieu were also talking of the future in the 
next room, the young people — the bride and groom of 
the morrow — were exchanging those last thoughts, 
those last words of human beings who, still strangers 
to each other, will on the morrow bear the same name, 
share the same destiny. 

To-morrow ! It was a delicious word that recurred 
in their talk like a joyous peal of bells greeting the 
dawn. To-morrow ! A whole love-poem was con- 
tained in those syllables spoken, repeated, with caress- 
ing tones of the voice, and clasps of the hands. They 
were in the apartment crowded with trinkets, pic- 
tures, jewels, laces, in which the wedding gifts were 
to be exhibited the next morning. The display of 
fans and gold and silver articles, with the donors’ 
cards attached here and there, laid upon cushions or 
slipped into cases, resembled a sumptuous exhibition 
of artistically dissimilar bric-a-brac. There were 
35 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


superb and ordinary gifts, according to the taste of 
the friends who had selected these souvenirs, and the 
odd promiscuousness of the little modem tables and 
these antiques, glass articles of Galle, or combs from 
Lalique, placed by the side of common glassware, old- 
fashioned liqueur cases, or obsolete ornaments, seemed 
like the elbowing of two generations declaring their 
preferences by new designs or former styles. And 
according to the fashion, there was a display — chang- 
ing the drawing-room into a shop — of these gifts whose 
value the guests would scrutinize to-morrow, discuss- 
ing their number and weight. 

Andre and Cecile cared little for this exhibition of 
vanity. Hand in hand, they were recalling their 
memories, making dreams. She gazed at him with 
her blue eyes, her whole delicate face, bright and 
smiling, illuminated by trust and love. And he, look- 
ing with an expression of protection and devotion at 
this lovely creature, whose supple figure leaned lightly 
against the sofa where they sat, placing his lips close 
to the little pink ear of the child who to-morrow would 
be his wife, murmured slowly : 

“I love thee!” 

It was the first time he had used this intimate form 
of speech, and the somewhat reserved, timid fiance 
became an ardent lover, speaking a language that 
seemed to Cecile like unknown music. She had 
36 


THE MARRIAGE OF ANDRE FORTIS 


flushed at this unexpected familiarity of address, this 
tliou which was like taking complete possession of 
her by the man she had chosen, and her pretty fair 
head, as if it had grown heavy with new thoughts, 
half drooped upon the young man’s shoulder. 

‘‘Yes, you love me! And how happy I am!” re- 
plied an almost inaudible voice. 

Their hands, which were to be joined before the 
altar, did not unclasp. 

General de Jandrieu, paternal and cordial, en- 
tered, interrupting the duet by a “Well?” — adding, 
“My dear children, I can understand that the time 
seems short to you, but it is passing. It is growing 
late. And to-morrow Cecile must wake early. The 
gown! The famous gown!” Andre rose, Cecile 
smiled : 

“You are right, Papa!” 

“I am always right.” 

The lover took leave of Madame de Jandrieu, who 
held out her hands to him with a look of emotion, and 
Cecile went with him into the anteroom all alone, 
waiting till he had put on his overcoat and sought the 
young girl’s brow, imprinting a last kiss upon it, to 
say to him in her turn, softly and slowly : 

‘ ‘ I, too, love thee. ’ ’ 

Andre carried away in this last word a whole 
world of joy. He forgot everything, thought only of 
37 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Cecile, absorbed in the one idea: “I shall be the hus- 
band of this delightful creature !” The rest disap- 
peared — suffering and evil dreams. Everything was 
dispelled, driven away, illuminated, joyous. He 
slept like a child, and woke with happy ideas — gay 
as the sunshine filtering through the curtains, mak- 
ing the atoms glitter like mica dust in the rays of 
light. 

And it was with a light heart, an alert confidence, 
a sense of gratitude to destiny, that he went to the 
house where his bride awaited him under her white 
veil, in her white gown. 

The doors of Saint-Roch now opened, and over the 
carpet covering the stone steps the procession ad- 
vanced to the altar. The organ flung up to the 
vaulted roof that Wedding March which has greeted 
so many couples thus moving, with smiling lips, to- 
wards the unknown future; the Wedding March of 
festal days succeeding to those same notes of the or- 
gan, beneath those same stone vaults, the Funeral 
March which, more than once, fate should have per- 
formed beforehand for so many brides and bride- 
grooms eager for happiness. 

Before the altar, Andre, when he passed the wed- 
ding ring over Cecile ’s finger, felt recalled to the im- 
pressions of childhood, and it seemed to him that he 
was returning to the youth who possessed faith, long, 
38 


THE MARRIAGE OF ANDRE FORTIS 


so long ago ! His fingers pressed, with loving gentle- 
ness, the hand which the young girl placed in his, and 
emotion caused no tremor in her who was giving her- 
self, trusting herself to him, certain of affection and 
devotion. 

Cecile bowed her head beneath the blessing of the 
priest with a fervor akin to the distinctness with 
which the yes that binds two human beings had been 
pronounced before the mayor. The relatives, in 
chairs of gilded velvet, watched the black coat of the 
groom beside the white robe in the light of the altar. 

When the now united pair passed through the 
double line of guests, friends, curious or envious 
spectators, questioning or smiling faces bent toward 
the newly-wedded couple, a ray of sunshine, gliding 
through the window, surrounded like a halo the blond 
beauty of the girl who was now Madame Fortis. An 
electric light could not have illumined with more dis- 
tinctness the pretty face which looked radiant in the 
sudden glow. And the superstitious smiled at the 
sudden appearance of the sun, saying: 

‘‘It is a sign of happiness !” 

Cecile leaned on Andre’s arm, and this delightful, 
trusting pressure seemed to the young man a caress. 

The procession followed behind the young couple, 
beautiful in the unconscious pride of happy love, and 
the vestry filled with the great crowd of guests, press- 
4 39 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


ing and shoving through the chairs to the door, and 
forming there, after the stifling rush, a more orderly 
line, with the usual clasping of hands and obligatory 
kisses, the compliments, the “best wishes.’ ’ There 
was the inevitable sequence of commonplaces and 
greetings, indifferent faces forcing conventional 
smiles, but among which, from time to time, a 
friendly look, an earnest word, the appearance of 
some old companion of former days introduced their 
note of cordial affection and loyal warmth. 

Though happy in this attention, this throng suc- 
ceeding throng, the married couple and their relatives 
thought the march very long as they entered the 
hustle and press in Monsieur de Jandrieu’s drawing- 
rooms. The reception, the serving of the refresh- 
ments, the inspection of the wedding gifts, the 
renewed compliments, the new “best wishes” amid 
the clusters of roses or lilacs — all white flowers — 
seemed fairly interminable. 

Or rather, no, a sort of fever, intoxication, with all 
this noise, and all these people, gave to this other 
march the appearance of an unreal vision, and these 
guests around champagne glasses, frozen chocolate, 
and sandwiches, the buzz of voices, the laughter, the 
rustling of silk, the heady atmosphere of a hothouse 
appeared to the bride and groom like the acting of 
some rapid comedy. Guests succeeded guests, the 
40 


THE MARRIAGE OF ANDRfc FORTIS 


stairways and elevator brought and bore away visit- 
ors who all, in trite phrases, repeated the same words, 
with the same clasp of the hand, which, replacing 
the fraternal embrace, has become the usual and ex- 
pected form of greeting. 

Cecile moved to and fro with the orange wreath 
upon her beautiful hair, just the color of ripe wheat, 
and when she passed him, Andre, who sought her 
with his eyes amid the fashionable throng, gave her 
a tender, happy, very proud smile. He really 
thought he was dreaming. So this beautiful young 
girl, admired, envied, as radiant in these rooms as in 
the sudden ray of sunshine at the church, was his 
own. She was his wife. She bore his name. He 
had driven away mournful thoughts, black fears. 
He could hope and live. 

Then, suddenly, amid the uproar of the reception, 
as he was crossing a little room to join Cecile, he 
stopped short. A singular feeling, not exactly pain 
— on the contrary, a sensation almost agreeable, some- 
thing like the uncertainty of a doze, or the move- 
ment of an invisible guide, who gently draws us on- 
ward — passed through his brain. He fancied that 
an unseen finger touched him on the right side of 
the head. Andre Fortis remained motionless, with- 
out moving a step. 

Suddenly he was seized with terror. Was this an 

41 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


attack? Was not the past, the terrible past, yet 
dead? 

“Come, come, am I not mistaken? The fragrance 
of the flowers — the noise — the crowd — it is allowable 
to have a headache. It is a headache, nothing more. 
I have a headache, that’s it.” 

He tore himself away from the agonizing thought 
which had suddenly seemed to nail him to the floor, 
and walked toward the little drawing-room. Cecile 
was laughing with her friends. One of them, armed 
with a camera, was determined to photograph the 
bride and bridegroom, upon the balcony. 

As he passed, Andre saw a pale-faced, somewhat 
haggard guest in the mirror. It was his own reflec- 
tion. Smiling just now, his features had quickly as- 
sumed an expression of uneasiness. 

“I am a stupid fool! Dr. Chardin told me I 
was released, liberated. There is nothing more to 
fear.” 

And as Cecile ’s friend, Miss Howe, an American 
girl, repeated: “Yes, yes, I must photograph you, 
it is pleasant to keep such souvenirs,” he replied 
gayly: “Well, then, let us be photographed.” 

On the balcony, far from all the noise, which, how- 
ever, still came to them through the window, he forgot 
the hunted sensation. Bareheaded in the open air 
of this beautiful day, which seemed like spring, he 
42 


THE MARRIAGE OF ANDRE FORTIS 


no longer felt the pressure of that hand upon his 
head, neither obsession, nor headache. 

“There is no finer weather,” said Miss Howe. “It 
is Saint Martin’s summer. When you are very, very 
old, you will be delighted to find this summer again 
in my photograph. ’ ’ 

“Oh, very old! We have plenty of time.” 

They laughed. The American girl thanked them. 
“That’s finished. Oh! it doesn’t take long. As 
short as saying yes.” 

They went back into the now empty apartment, 
with its stripped sideboard, its dry carafes, its car- 
pet strewn with petals fallen from the flowers. This 
solitude, after the weariness of the day of ceremoni- 
ous joy, appeared to them delicious. 

Gradually dusk entered the rooms where the odors 
of the liqueurs and the roses were floating. The 
melancholy of twilight filled the rooms so lately 
crowded, now deserted. Monsieur and Madame de 
Jandrieu were thinking that soon — so soon — Cecile 
was going away, leaving still more empty the home, 
the little chamber with its Persian curtains strewn 
with flowers, in which she had spent her last day of 
girlhood. 

Cecile, tired but happy, went from one piece of 
furniture to another, sitting down and saying with a 
merry laugh: 


43 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“I am worn out.” 

The general, trying to smile, answered, thinking 
himself cheerful: 

“ Luckily people don’t get married every day!” 

The family meal was silent. The parents were 
thinking of the departure, Cecile of that sort of run- 
ning away which would soon separate her from 
these beloved ones, to bear her toward an unknown 
future. 

1 i Life is strange, nevertheless,” said Monsieur de 
'Jandrieu. ‘ ‘We rear a child, who is our daily joy, 
to have a gentleman whom we do not know, a passer- 
by — oh! I am very fond of this passer-by, my dear 
Andre — take her and carry her away from us. We 
were everything yesterday, we shall be nothing to- 
morrow. It is as commonplace as life itself. All 
parents have made this reflection ; but when we make 
it ourselves, and for ourselves, ah ! upon my word, we 
are a little troubled by it! — I am not very hungry!” 

All the parents’ hopes were translated into looks as 
gentle as benedictions, fixed softly upon the wedded 
pair. Abdication is the lot of the old; if the young 
do not forget them too soon, they are consoled for 
their anguish, and repaid for their labor. 

Madame de 'Jandrieu gave her daughter a last kiss, 
the general wrung his son-in-law’s hand, and Cecile 
entered, with tears in her eyes, the coupe waiting at 
44 


THE MARRIAGE OF ANDRfi FORTIS 


the door. Andre, forgetful of his fears, was happy 
and joyous ! 

“I am not weeping for sorrow,” said Cecile, seated 
beside her husband. 1 1 1 grieve for those who are left 
alone, but I am happy, you know!” 

“You? Why do you say you to me?” 

“I don’t know — ” 

The familiar form of address, which had seemed 
to her perfectly natural at home, under her parents’ 
roof, confused, disturbed her in the solitary conver- 
sation in the carriage which was bearing them away 
as if in flight. Yet she was not afraid. It was the 
companion of whom she had dreamed who was there 
by her side, whose loving gaze she felt fixed upon her. 
When the coupe passed under a gas lamp, the light 
streamed through the window, illumined for an in- 
stant Andre’s smiling face and the white gown, then 
disappeared — and Cecile let her fair head rest on the 
young man’s shoulder, murmuring: 

“Yes, happy, I am happy, and I love thee!” 

And pressing her to him, his lips sought this vir- 
gin’s brow, and rested there in a kiss of ecstasy. 

Then, with clasped hands, they gazed into the 
street. 

“We shall live to be very old,” said Andre mer- 
rily. 

“Very old?” 


45 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“Yes. I have just questioned a sign. I said to 
myself, if the first vowel I see is an 0 — it will mean 
that we shall live together a long, long time, if it is 
anR- ” 

“And the vowel ?” 

“ Coiffeur A Virgile coiffeur!” 

“Virgile?” 

She had begun to laugh. 

“This good Virgile! So you are superstitious ?” 

“Very. Yet I only half believe these answers of 
chance. Still, when the reply is favorable, I am 
glad. Virgile coiffeur! We shall live to be very 
old.” 


IV 


THE ATTACK RETURNS 

The coupe stopped before the house in the Rue 
Murillo, where the maid who had served Mademoi- 
selle de Jandrieu was waiting for Madame Fortis. 
Cecile passed swiftly in front of the janitor’s room, 
avoiding curious eyes, and with only the rustling of 
her dress disturbing the silence of the staircase, ran 
lightly, as if stealthily, to the apartment which they 
were to occupy. The electric light in the vestibule 
illumined the flowers whose arrangement Madame de 
Jandrieu had superintended, to give a festal air to 
this new home. Lilacs, in white bunches, brought an 
atmosphere of spring, a setting of joy. 

Cecile smiled at this bright framework of light and 
flowers. 

They remained silent a moment, standing before 
the mantelpiece in their room, their faces reflected 
in the mirror, their elbows resting on the marble, 
and their hands clasped. Their eyes expressed the 
fervor of prayer. This delicious solitude which com- 
menced their new life filled them with the same 
47 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 

exquisite emotion, an anxiety which melted into 
sweetness. 

“My wife!” said Andre. “What a word, which 
contains the whole existence, our existence hence- 
forward. My wife ! ’ ’ 

She answered only by taking his hands, and the 
mute clasp expressed a whole poem of tenderness. 

She had no need for speech, that Andre might 
understand her. He read her soul like an open book, 
and softly, leaving her alone to take off the bridal 
robe which fitted as if molded to her waist, her bust, 
her whole charming person, which still retained a 
sweet childish grace, he went away, saying nothing, 
only making a sign that he was there, close by, in the 
room which was to be his, opening from the chamber 
where Cecile was to sleep. 

It was a sort of bachelor’s room, with a bookcase, 
a desk, and several choice pictures. Andre pressed 
the electric button and, after having looked around 
him, straightened a frame, taken from the shelves a 
book and put it back without opening it, he dropped 
into an armchair. He was thinking. 

The whole day through which he had passed seemed 
unreal. The noise, the crowd, the procession of peo- 
ple, all these vanished faces — was it true? And was 
he actually in the Rue Murillo, within two paces of 
the young girl who was his wife, in the apartment he 
48 


THE ATTACK RETURNS 


had hired, and whose fitting-up he had supervised? 

Yes, all this was reality! Mademoiselle de Jan- 
drieu was Madame Fortis. This home was the nest, 
the fireside, the refuge. Upstairs was his studio, 
with the Park Moneeau for a horizon. He was going 
to work. He was going to love, to be loved. This was 
the halting place, the happy halting place, the new 
life. 

‘ 4 Or rather, life ! ’ 9 he thought. 1 ‘ For have I lived 
till now?” He did not even remember the names of 
the flirtations which had preceded this great love. 

He listened, asking himself of what Cecile was 
now thinking, what she was doing, if she was dream- 
ing of him. He heard no sound, the adjoining room 
seemed empty. 

“ Perhaps she is praying.” 

It did not displease him, the free thinker, to have 
this child pray for their common happiness. 

He would have liked to tell her so, to speak to her, 
to see her again. He found the silence strange after 
the tumult of the day. The clock struck. The sound 
made him start. 

“Why, I am nervous!” 

He rose, took a book haphazard, a volume of Mus- 
set, “The Nights.” 

“One evening in my student days. 

Full late I sat to watch and wait. . . 

49 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


He hastily closed the volume. That “December 
Night” had always disturbed him, giving him the 
sensation of a fantastic reality. The doctor had even 
told him one day that the man who had evoked that 
night was, medically speaking, a lunatic. 

“These doctors! Such a poet!” 

Moreover, he found it strange that the accident of 
his movement should have carried him to that precise 
bit of verse which made his nerves vibrate like a bow- 
string. 

“When by my side he took his place, 

A student, too, clad all in black, 

Like as a brother’s was his face. . . 

The lines Andre Fortis knew by heart were singing 
like a refrain, returning like a lamentation to the 
young man’s memory. He had sat down again, and 
it seemed as if someone was walking behind him, be- 
hind the armchair. 

He saw himself in the glass, turning quickly, with a 
questioning look on his pale face. 

No one was there. 

“Who could have been there? It’s nonsense!” 

He began to laugh, and heard himself. 

“That devil of a Musset! It’s his fault.” 

He had risen, whistling some tune, and suddenly, 
invisibly, felt himself thrust, urged toward the same 
besetting idea. 


50 


THE ATTACK RETURNS 


“Full late I sat to watch and wait.” 

He experienced the strange sensation that the 
watcher of the winter night was he, and that he 
should undergo its agonies and terrors. A sound 
from Cecile’s room, the sound of a voice through the 
door, and the haunting feeling would have vanished. 
But the chamber remained silent, so silent that Andre 
now feared some peril, a fainting fit, an accident. 

“What if I should call her?” 

Then he tried to recover his self-control. He 
would leave her to herself. Presently he would 
laughingly tell her his fears. 

But these fears gradually assumed a different form. 
And it was himself, his own sufferings, that now 
made him anxious. Did he not feel, on his temples 
and at the right side of his head, that sensation of 
strange pressure, a finger bearing upon the bones 
that would invisibly touch the brain? Yes, that al- 
most pleasing, tempting heaviness, like a luring slum- 
ber, lulling in its cruelty, that unwholesome slum- 
ber which transformed him into a different man, 
imposed upon him a new personality, that slumber 
whose approach he had not felt for such a long, long 
time, was coming. Like an unexpected specter that 
had vanished, a scattered mist assuming form, it was 
rising, gliding into his own individuality, or rather 
driving it away and transforming it. 

51 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 

“Ah!” said Andre aloud. “Dr. Chardin has been 
deceived! Has Dr. Chardin lied? The attack is 
here! It is returning! Oh! This is frightful!” 

And, his voice growing harsh, he again repeated 
the terrible word, so full of horror to him : 

“The attack!” 

Then, rising to his full height, he gazed for a mo- 
ment with an expression of bewilderment and terri- 
ble grief at the door which separated him from Ce- 
cile, and, with a jerking step, tried to go to a small 
piece of furniture near the bookcase, where the 
other day he had placed a revolver. 

He was searching for the key in his pocket. 

“Where is that key?” 

His hand, already fevered, could not find it. A 
torpor was taking possession of him, rendering his 
head heavy and, while he was trying to connect ideas, 
scattered as they are on the eve of sleep, his heavy 
forehead seemed to be dragging him forward and, 
conquered, he at last sat down in the armchair. 
There — uneasy in her turn after a somewhat long 
period of waiting — timidly, her heart beating vio- 
lently, Cecile, opening her door, found him seated, 
not yet asleep, but thinking with his eyes open. 

She stopped, expecting a smile, a word; then, a 
little surprised, she moved softly forward, waiting 
till Fortis should raise his eyes to her. 

52 


THE ATTACK RETURNS 


In her white dressing-gown, with the lamplight 
brightening the fine gold of her hair, she seemed still 
more rosy, more exquisitely fragile and slender, with 
the elegance of a Diana by Jean Goujon, but a ju- 
venile Diana, whose pride was still timid. 

The stillness of Andre, who did not even appear 
to notice that she was there, surprised her. She 
dared not advance, and remained silent; a word 
from her lips would have seemed like a summons to 
him. But the slightest noise, the rustle of her wrap- 
per gliding over the carpet, should have roused her 
husband. He did not look at her. He was staring 
into vacancy, she did not know at what image. For 
a moment she thought him asleep. 

But he rose abruptly, and this time turned his 
eyes toward her. They looked amazed. 

He made a very courteous movement, the move- 
ment of a gallant man who bows to a lady while 
apologizing for passing in front of her, saying 
gently : 

“I beg your pardon, Madame !” 

Cecile thought she was dreaming. That voice was 
not Andre’s. It had a peculiar sonorousness. The 
words uttered were brief. The request for pardon 
seemed addressed to a stranger. “Pardon, Ma- 
dame!” That word, Madame , after the tender con- 
fidences murmured in her ear in the coupe which 
53 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


conveyed the lovers, resembled words in an unknown, 
unexpected language. Andre had made the bow as 
if he had held a hat in his hand, and hastily retreated 
a step, opening the door quickly, and vanishing in 
the darkness of the adjoining room. 

Left alone, Cecile experienced a feeling of singu- 
lar terror, as if she had suddenly escaped from real- 
ity and found herself in the presence of a vision. 
Had she actually seen, in this empty armchair, the 
man who was her husband? Had Andre appeared, 
standing looking at her with that air of surprise 
which bewildered her ? Had he really spoken ? Had 
she really heard those words: “I beg your pardon, 
Madame ! ’ ’ 

She examined the objects surrounding her, the 
furniture, the open bookcase ; the book that had fallen 
on the carpet. Was this unfamiliar room in which 
she found herself a stage scene, the vision of a dream, 
or something tangible and real? That door open 
upon the empty darkness, through which Andre had 
vanished, inspired a feeling of terror. She wanted 
to cry out, all alone in this house. With him she 
feared nothing, but without him she felt threatened 
by some indistinct danger, enveloped by an invisible 
threat. 

Then she called. Why had he gone out? Why 
was there this change in his voice? 

54 


THE ATTACK RETURNS 


41 Andre! Andre !” 

Through the open doorway the next room ap- 
peared, * still dark and empty. He did not come. 
He did not answer. 

“Andre! Andre!” 

Yet he must hear. The cry was now strident, the 
appeal for help of a frightened child. Still that gulf 
of darkness, that sense of desertion in a habitation 
echoing with emptiness. 

“Oh! I want to go away! I want to go away!” 
repeated Cecile, and to her trembling lips instinc- 
tively returned the calls of her childhood, those 
which even the old, when dying, find once more in 
the depths of their memory to call for aid: Papa , 
Mamma , the childishness of the cries being sublimated 
by the danger. 

She rushed back to her room as if pursued. She 
had just put out half the lights. The white spot 
made by her wedding gown lying on the sofa fright- 
ened her, as if it were a winding sheet. She re- 
lighted the lamps. The flowers still framed the 
mirror above the mantelpiece; but Cecile saw in the 
glass her convulsed face ; and as Andre had just been 
surprised by his own reflection, she was startled at 
the sight of her features. 

In desperation, she renewed her call, repeated the 
name ; heard it again fall into the silence : 

5 55 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“Andre! Where are you, Andre ?” 

She did not understand, she did not try to under- 
stand. She only longed to fly, to escape from this 
emptiness, this solitude; to hear a human voice, in- 
stead of struggling in this alarming silence so like 
an abyss. 

What if she should ring for her maid? Yes! She 
was already putting a finger on the ivory button. 
But what should she tell her? Cecile was not going 
to ask her to leave this place; to go with her to her 
parents * home, if she fled. And why should she 
fly? Andre was there. He would reappear. He 
had not gone out. 

No, no, since just at that moment he came to the 
threshold of the room, looking straight before him, 
as if inquiringly, a smile showing through his black 
beard. 

Then, with a loud, despairing cry, Cecile rushed 
toward her husband: “Ah! thou, thou, at last!” — 
and she ran forward as if to take refuge in his arms. 
But the same expression of astonishment which had 
surprised her just before again stopped her, and 
Andre’s eyes gazed at her in a questioning way, as if 
he did not know or did not recognize this woman 
here. 

“Oh! if you knew, if you knew how frightened I 
have been,” she said, uttering in the words all her 
56 


THE ATTACK RETURNS 


terror, all her tenderness, all her submission. “Oh! 
but now you are here, and I am reassured. Was I 
crazy ? I thought of ringing for Marthe to go away ! 
Yes, can you believe it? I did not know. I called 
you, but you did not answer. So, you understand.” 

She approached him, expecting that he would hold 
out his arms to shield her like a poor frightened bird. 
He did not stir. He stood there, attentively listen- 
ing to what she said, with the expression of a man 
who wants to understand words whose exact meaning 
escapes him. 

At last he said slowly, smiling politely, repeating 
the same phrases of apology: 

“I beg your pardon, Madame. Why am I here? 
Why are you here?” 

He looked at himself in the mirror: “White 
cravat. Black coat. Why? I have no evening en- 
gagement. I must work to-morrow. A picture is 
expected. To begin work sooner, I am going to spend 
the night in my studio. I shall be on the spot.” 
Then he repeated again: “But why are you here? 
Why?” 

And the tone of interrogation was so earnest, 
urgent, and anxious, that Cecile drew back, certain 
that the man was insane. Yes, insane or drunk. 
Terror returned, still more intense, as if she were 
shut up in the padded cell of a maniac. 

57 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


The excessive politeness of the man who was her 
husband and who treated her as if she were a stranger, 
wondering at her presence, looking at her as if she 
were some unknown visitor, seemed more alarming 
than any menace would have done. He had signed 
to her to sit down and, renewing his question, asked : 

“Why are you here? To whom have I the honor 
of speaking?” 

To whom? She looked him full in the face to see 
if the inquiry was not some strange jest : 

“To whom? Why, to me, your wife! Andre, 
don’t you remember?” 

He repeated, as if endeavoring to understand 
something incomprehensible : 

“My wife?” 

He gazed at her a long time with an expression of 
tender pity, the expression of a person full of kind- 
ness who forgives. 

“But I have no wife, I am not married, I like a 
free life, the life of work in my studio, complete lib- 
erty in the world. I shall never marry.” 

The tone in which the words were spoken was cold, 
resolute, and deliberate. Cecile now believed herself 
subjected to a trial whose meaning she did not clearly 
grasp. She even wondered if she was really aware 
of what was occurring around her, of what she saw 
and heard. 


58 


THE ATTACK RETURNS 

% 

Seated before this man in evening dress, among 
these flowers, under the electric light, it gradually 
seemed to her that she was talking with a stranger, 
in an unfamiliar house, and that this whole past day 
— with its departure for the church, the march of 
the procession, the vestry, the afternoon, the crowd, 
then the solitude and the talk alone together in the 
coupe — all this was a vision, something fleeting, ap- 
pearing and disappearing like the phantoms displayed 
by a cinematograph. 


Y 


IS IT INSANITY? 

There was a dream-like sensation in what Cecile 
was experiencing. It seemed as if a gulf was sud- 
denly yawning around her. She felt giddy. Either 
what had happened during this day of excitement 
was a vision, or what now appeared to her was a 
nightmare. It seemed impossible, incredible that the 
charming fiance of those happy hours, the tender 
lover in that flight amid smiles and joy could be the 
frigid, coldly-questioning man who was there, with 
a different personality, under the same features, but 
a new tone of voice, falling unexpectedly and icily 
from the same lips. To her buzzing ears, her com- 
pressed temples, her troubled brain brought the 
thought : 

“Either Andre is playing some incomprehensible 
farce, or he is insane, or I am!” 

Then the curt, resolute, sententious voice went on: 

“No, Madame, no, I shall never marry! An artist 
must have no fetters. I have my work to do. A 
great work. I have to live, too; to live with all the 
60 


IS IT INSANITY? 


intensity that modern existence offers man; to go, to 
come, to travel, to see, to see everything, every- 
thing.’ J 

4 ‘But,” she said, “I will share this life with you, 
Andre. I, too, want to see, and to live! I shall be 
the most loyal companion in everything and for every- 
thing, you know that well.” 

She awaited an answer, and the young man re- 
mained silent, his face expressing increasing surprise 
— and his black eyes resting upon Cecile’s with ob- 
stinate intentness. 

“Yes, Andre, yes, everywhere and always! But 
I told you, I have told you so ! And the more beau- 
tiful the work, the more proud of you I shall be! 
So proud — ” 

He rose abruptly. 

“Really, Madame, I beg your pardon for not un- 
derstanding what you wish to say to me. Where do 
you think you are?” 

“In your — our home.” 

“To whom do you think you are speaking?” 

“To Monsieur Andre Fortis, my husband.” 

“I am, it is true, Andre Fortis; yes, you know my 
name, but I am not your husband ! ’ ’ 

“You are not my husband? We did not kneel be- 
fore the altar this morning? You did not place this 
ring upon my finger?” 


61 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


She held out her hand. The gold ring glittered 
under the lamplight. 

“This ring?” 

“You did not take me from my parents’ home, 
bring me here? Come, come, Andre. What do you 
mean? To test me, to frighten me? I don’t under- 
stand. But I beg, I entreat you, cease this jesting, 
or I shall go mad. You do not know how I am suffer- 
ing. I understand that it is a joke, but why do you 
joke in this way? Andre, in pity, Andre, say one 
word to reassure me; I am frightened, I tell you; I 
am frightened!” 

She was sure that he would cease this terrible jest- 
ing, that his mask would fall, that she would soon 
regain the beloved being whose life she was to share. 
This absurd game would end. 

He had wished to alarm her. Why had he done 
so? Cecile had no idea; but now that she was trem- 
bling, what was the use of continuing? 

“Yes, I am afraid, I am afraid!” 

Andre, unmoved, replied: 

“You know my name, and I do not know yours. 
To whom have I the honor of speaking?” 

Ah! This time she could not doubt. Some ter- 
rible attack was transforming this man. Andre 
Fortis was no longer the same, was no longer him- 
self. A madman doubtless. She was a madman’s wife. 

62 


IS IT INSANITY? 


She rose, placing the armchair where she had been 
sitting between him and herself. 

“You know my name, Andre. I was Mademoiselle 
de Jandrieu, I am Madame Cecile Fortis.” 

“There is no Cecile Fortis,” said the voice, which 
was growing strident. “There is no Madame Fortis. 

I am not married ! I am free ! — Ah ! Madame 
Fortis, Madame Fortis! A wife who would be a 
jailer, a daily spy ! Ah ! no ! Ah ! no ! No, no, 
no!” 

He paced the room with long, jerky strides, an 
almost savage excitement was succeeding his courteous 
coldness; his fingers were impulsively seeking some 
bottle, some ornament which he could throw on the 
floor, break, crush into fragments. 

Then Cecile thought she understood that a sort of 
rage was seizing upon him, the despairing rage of a 
being free the evening before, and who feels bound, 
who is bound and, as it were, imprisoned for life. 
She was terrified! Andre regretted having married 
her. At their first steps into life he was drawing 
back, rebelling against his duties. She had destroyed 
his happiness — why? How? She did not know — 
but this happiness was lying more crushed th^a^y , 
of the articles which Andre w,as resisting tbg, .impure , 
to shatter intp bits, 

‘Madame Fortis! A Madame Fortis! Where is. 

63 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Madame Fortis? When you hear a Madame Fortis 
announced, you can say that she lies! There is no 
Madame Fortis ! There is a man named Andre For- 
tis — myself — who wishes to be subject to no one, and 
who is really, I tell you, Madame, subject to no one ! 
No one!” 

“I understand,” she replied, with great dignity. 
“.You wish me to leave this home which I entered 
so full of happiness. I will do so. I will go to- 
morrow. To-morrow I will return to my parents. 
You shall be obeyed. There will be no Madame 
Fortis!” 

Suddenly calmed, he approached her, smiling and 
slightly shrugging his shoulders: 

“But that is not what I said to you, Madame. I 
told you that I am not married, that there is no 
Madame Fortis, because there really is none — and I 
beg your pardon for having unintentionally fright- 
ened you, by stating in the most natural way in the 
world, the simplest of truths.” 

Cecile would have preferred to see him angry and 
insolent as he had been just before. This gentleness, 
more in harmony with his nature, succeeding, as if 
by an effort of the will, a fit of rage, seemed to the 
unfortunate wife a sort of insult. It gave his words 
the cold tone of a sentence. He considered this thun- 
derbolt “very simple.” With the studied courtesy 
64 



“He apologized for this revelation . . . which, to Cecile, was some- 
thing incredible, sinister, mad.” 




IS IT INSANITY? 


of the man of the world, the usual politeness, he 
apologized for this revelation, this transformation 
which, to Cecile, was something incredible, sinister, 
mad, but to him was a fact, nothing more, a fact as if 
the singularity of the situation had escaped his atten- 
tion. 

And it really did escape him. Cecile, amid the 
bewilderment of her own reason, perceived in Andre ’s 
mind an absolute certainty, the fixed conviction of 
the lunatic who believes his vision. She had married 
a madman! She had only one thought — to fly, to 
regain the room she had had when a young girl, to 
become once more Mademoiselle de Jandrieu, since 
there was no Madame Fortis. 

She glanced at the clock. It was just on the stroke 
of two. 

Andre divined her thought : 

“It is too late for you to go away, Madame. I 
repeat that since chance has brought you here at such 
an hour, you can remain until daylight. I will sleep 
in my studio/ * 

He bowed again and, as before, disappeared in the 
darkness of the drawing-room. 

Then instinctively, with a bound Cecile rushed 
toward the door to push the bolt. She no longer de- 
sired to see him. She was afraid of seeing him 
again. All alone, shut up in this strange nuptial 
65 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


chamber, she wanted to try to realize what had hap- 
pened, to collect her thoughts, to decide what she 
should do. 

“Let us see, let us see. What? Is he mad? He 
must be mad ! ’ ’ 

She had taken her seat in the armchair where just 
now she was gazing at him, studying him. With her 
elbows on her knees, her nails pressed on her teeth, 
she was thinking. Two o’clock! Monsieur and 
Madame de Jandrieu, yonder, were doubtless talking 
of her and her happiness. They had not gone to bed. 
Her happiness! If she should tell them what had 
become of her happiness in the first hour! Poor 
parents ! What would they do on seeing her appear 
like a fugitive in the night? 

“No. To-morrow. Let us wait until to-morrow. 
I will go to-morrow.” 

She looked at the closed door. With the bolt shot, 
she had nothing to fear. She was really in her own 
home. She would wait for the day. But how long 
this night would be ! 

Her sad eyes, full of tears, wandered to the flowers 
on the mantelpiece — the mournful flowers which had 
become funereal. There were orchids of strange 
forms among them — melancholy flowers. The white 
wreath, the buds of the orange flowers, were smiling 
near in the full glow of light. And nothing was more 
66 


IS IT INSANITY? 


ironically heart-rending than these festal decorations 
surviving the ruined hopes. 

She had married a madman ! She was a madman ’s 
wife! Nothing in the world was more terrifying to 
her than this savage disorder, cutting off: a human 
being, converting him into a mere puppet, whose 
strings were pulled by insanity. There was no doubt 
that the person who had made the remarks heard a 
moment ago, was certainly not in the possession of 
his reason. But she bore his name! She had given 
herself to him with all her soul ! And she loved him ! 
Even in her terror she felt that an emotion of pity 
gave her a desire to open that door and go to him — 
at any sacrifice — to learn whether he was suffering. 

Where was he? In his studio? Up there. If he 
should call? If he needed help? If no one an- 
swered ? 

“I am going to see him. It is impossible that he 
should not return to his senses !” 

But she was stopped by the dread of finding him 
unmoved and resolute, repeating: “There is no 
Madame Fortis!” 

Sometimes she shivered with cold, sometimes, open- 
ing the register, she felt stifling, attacked by fever. 
She watched the clock. She listened to the noises of 
the night. The hours struck; confused sounds of 
cabs, rolling in the distance, seemed like indistinct 
67 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


murmurs; some whistle of a locomotive, more distant 
still, rent the darkness like a sharp point buried in 
her happiness. 

Besides, she felt exhausted. Though not wishing to 
sleep, she wrapped herself in her cloak, gradually, in 
the drowsiness of fatigue, letting herself glide toward 
slumber amid the confused visions which come before 
repose, where mingled smiling faces, the procession, 
the music, her mother’s smiles, Andre’s words of love, 
and the childlike laughter in the carriage, the car- 
riage that was bearing them toward their future life, 
the happy life together. By degrees, forgetting her 
disappointment and terror, happy, lulled by those 
images of consoling joy, Mademoiselle de Jandrieu — 
she who was, yet was not Madame Fortis — fell asleep 
in the closed room which just now had seemed to her 
as menacing as a maniac’s padded cell, as desolate as 
a prison. 


VI 


THE AWAKENING 

When Cecil e woke it was daylight. The gray No- 
vember dawn was filtering through the curtains. She 
rose, feeling the chill of the cold, and wondered how 
she chanced to be in this unfamiliar room. Glancing 
about her for some piece of furniture that she knew, 
she felt as though she were in a dream. Through the 
window opening upon a stone balcony, she saw, press- 
ing her forehead against the glass, that bit of un- 
known landscape, the Park Monceau, whose trees, 
stripped of their leaves, outlined their dry branches 
against the pallor of a snowy sky. 

The solitude of the park, enveloped in a gray fog, 
suddenly gave her an impression of distance, as if she 
had waked elsewhere than in Paris, amid the silence 
of an unknown city. Bunches of chrysanthemums, 
their yellow and brown leaves withered by the frost, 
a long lawn against which stood forth the outlines of 
yews still green, the black trunks and gnarled branches 
of tall leafless trees, queer heaps of straw wrapped 
around palms as a protection from the cold — and yon- 
69 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


der, a white spot, with figures like apparitions or forms 
in dreams, Gounod’s monument, with the cupola of 
the rotunda, dimly visible through the fog, seemed 
like some cemetery where no visitor, not even a 
shadow, was passing on this icy morning. 

She felt hopelessly unhappy and bewildered. The 
sight of that pleasure-ground reminded her where she 
was, who she was. What an awakening! 

So this was the end of that poor love romance, 
which, commencing at Trouville, ended yonder as if in 
an abyss. She was Andre ’s wife, and Andre, affected 
by some attack of neurosis, was yonder, somewhere, 
under the same roof, but separated from her by this 
strange disorder which prevented him from recogniz- 
ing her. What should she do now? Return to the 
paternal roof? Tell everything to the dear parents 
who believed her happy? Ply? 

But this was abruptly breaking all the bonds that 
united her to Andre. It was placing something ir- 
reparable between him and the future. What if she 
should have patience? What if she should wait? 
Perhaps this attack might be short? 

Yes, but she was afraid. She felt keen anguish at 
the thought that her husband — her husband! — might 
reappear before her, and say in that implacable voice 
which seemed like that of a judge speaking to an ad- 
venturess : 


70 


THE AWAKENING 


‘ ‘ There is no Madame Fortis ! ’ ’ 

She had always had an instinctive horror of this 
dread disease, insanity. On the journey to Dijon she 
had visited with her parents la Chartreuse, where the 
demented are received. She had heard their shrieks 
through the open windows. She had seen one un- 
fortunate man brought in a carriage, screaming, ap- 
pealing, wild-eyed, with foam on his lips, almost 
dragged along by the keepers. His despairing cries 
had long rung in her ears. Had she then married 
one of these human derelicts, and was she going to 
hear Andre shriek and lament like the maniacs of la 
Chartreuse ? 

She wanted to ring for her maid, yet dreaded to 
see her appear, announcing some new tragedy. 

Therese was a faithful girl, whom Madame de 
Jandrieu had regretted to lose. She had served 
Mademoiselle , whom she loved. The mother was glad 
to know that she was with Cecile. 

“Perhaps Therese will tell me where he is.” 

She pushed the electric button. And now she was 
sorry that she had called her. So soon ? What would 
the maid think when she was asked for information 
about her master? 

Therese did not permit her face to show any sign 
of surprise and, at her mistress’s question, answered 
that Monsieur Fortis was already in his studio and 
6 71 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


had rung for Frangois, the man servant. Monsieur 
was working. 

“Very well, Therese. I thank you.” 

“Does Madame wish me to dress her hair?” 

“No, I will dress it myself.” 

She wanted to he alone, to think, to make up her 
mind. She was fully aware that, on her decision, on 
the action she was about to take, she was risking the 
happiness of her life. To return to her girlhood home 
was to abandon Andre to his fate, to abdicate, divorce 
him the very first day. And she felt a tender pity, 
a mother’s pity for the unfortunate man whom she 
had seen a few hours before so unlike himself. To 
the fear of the timid woman, terrified by the insanity, 
succeeded with the necessity for devotion, a longing 
for sacrifice, that proceeded from love even more than 
from the instinctive feminine charity. 

He was working. She wanted to see him. Per- 
haps she would now find in him once more the charm- 
ing fiance, gentle, trusting, a little mournful, almost 
shy in his tenderness, whose voice, so unlike the curt, 
hard tone she had heard last night, seemed like the 
music sometimes heard with closed eyes as in the 
lulling of a dream. To that Andre she had given 
herself to the inmost depths of her soul. In spite of 
the commonplace manner of their first meeting, he was 
not the husband of any kind, whom the young girl 
72 


THE AWAKENING 


marries to escape from the monotony of home, to re- 
lease herself and be free ; no, it was really the chosen 
one, the husband expected and singled out, it was 
the nameless one who is He, the man whose life she 
had vowed — and which she still desired — to share. 

Even after the terrible experience of that night of 
horror, she was unwilling to destroy that hope by 
returning to Monsieur de Jandrieu. Even if Andre 
had been attacked by some sudden illness, if the ter- 
rible tete-a-tete must be renewed, well ! did not duty, 
her duty as a wife, lie there? Had she not prom- 
ised her devotion to all suffering, as she had promised 
her hourly affection? 

“He is working! I am going to see him. And I 
will say nothing to anyone. And nothing shall be 
known. Nothing. ’ ' 

Cecile had dressed, fatigue giving to her pretty, 
childish face a pallor which added to all her grace 
the charm of suffering. She left her chamber, crossed 
the empty drawing-room, and reached the inner stair- 
case which, lined with works of art, pictures, and 
armor, led to Andre's studio. She stopped on every 
step. As she went up, she felt the sense of fear 
gaining on her more and more. What if she should 
find above that apparition with the impenetrable 
black eyes fixed upon her, expressionless, incompre- 
hensible ? 


73 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


She leaned upon the carved wood railing. She felt 
her heart beating violently. She was tempted to go 
down again. 

4 ‘ Come ! That would be cowardly ! ’ 1 

She knocked at the closed door of the studio. A 
voice answered: “Come in!” Andre’s voice, but it 
was the hard tone, the cutting, hostile voice of the 
night before. 

It was not Andre whom she was going to find there, 
behind yonder door, it was that unknown person who 
had appeared to her like a specter of misfortune. 

“I don’t want to see him! I don’t want to see 
him!” 

She had uttered aloud the words which she thought 
she had only murmured and, with an impatient ges- 
ture, she nevertheless unconsciously opened the door 
and, in the immense studio, heaped with valuable 
works, seated over yonder before his canvas, palette 
in hand, she saw Andre in the dull light pouring 
through the huge glass window. 

With his body half bent over his canvas in an 
attitude of intense attention, he did not even lift his 
head when Cecile entered. He seemed to be absorbed 
by a fever of labor, drawn, attached to his canvas, 
hypnotized by his work. 

Cecile gazed at him. He had removed his white 
cravat, tossed his coat on an armchair and, in a black 
74 


THE AWAKENING 


velvet jacket, had doubtless resumed the habits of his 
daily life. His pictures, landscape studies, appeared 
hung on the walls among other works by friends. 
This whole huge studio, luxuriously and artistically 
furnished, the tapestries, the draperies, the flags 
forming a background of picturesque decoration to 
the glass cases full of choice trinkets, the marble 
busts upon their brackets, the manikins clad in an- 
cient or Japanese armor, knights of the Middle Ages 
or Samourai of the time of the Ronins, this setting 
in which every article had its worth, its importance, 
as it were its biography, revealed the impeccable col- 
lector and the man of taste. Amid these canvases, 
hangings, and marbles, he seemed like a workman 
toiling from daybreak, and he allowed Cecile to ap- 
proach close to the stool where he was sitting, without 
even noticing that anyone was there. 

She stopped before him to speak, looking at the 
painting which Andre had commenced. She was 
astounded. 

What the artist was seeking, placing upon the can- 
vas, was not one of the landscapes whose touching 
poesy had made the young master’s reputation, the 
poesy so gentle and dreamy in its sadness, drawing 
from Nature the consoling tenderness the stepmother 
sometimes possesses. It was a terrible vision, where 
amid the gold and colors, in an apotheosis of fairy- 
75 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


land whose jewels dazzled the eyes in glittering pyro- 
technics — was Humanity, incarnate in the diversity 
of its types, wallowing before a huge idol with the 
head of a Beast, crushing the bodies, grinding nude 
figures, making — as the press sends forth the juice 
of the grape — the blood flow from corpses heaped, 
crowded around its feet, as if in a terrible Juggernaut 
procession. This monster, with the bestial face, was 
the Golden Calf; behind it, like two specters, were 
Famine and War — Famine, emaciated, sinister, as 
though rendered anemic by all the blood and strength 
imbibed by the swollen Beast, eager and gluttonous; 
War, blood-stained, roaring, with bare arms, red 
from slaughter, as his sword was red, as his feet were 
red from dabbling in a mire of massacre. And be- 
fore this Golden Calf crouched the contractors and 
the courtiers, the villains and intriguers, the wan 
laborers, and the satisfied, portly men — a strange 
light, a light of dawn or of a fire, enveloped this 
scene of horror, the display of bodies crushed by the 
weight of the unmoved Beast, his snout and chaps 
dominating this crowd in a lurid vision of Apocalypse. 

Cecile was terrified. She involuntarily recoiled be- 
fore this spectacle. Was this evocation perhaps 
haunting Andre’s brain? 

She wished to know, and called: 

“Andre!” 


76 


THE AWAKENING 


He raised his head, and the same expression which 
had terrified Cecile the night before, came into his 
eyes. He was evidently astonished to see an unex- 
pected visitor in his studio. He hesitated an instant 
to interrupt his work, as if trying to understand 
what was happening, then — after a glance at his pic- 
ture — rising, he placed his maul-stick and palette on 
the stool and, still in the coldly-polite, indifferent 
tone that had alarmed her, asked : 

“You wish to speak to me, Madame V 9 

He made her a sign to sit down and she obeyed, 
wishing to try to find out what thoughts were stirring 
behind that brow, what was passing in that sick 
brain. 

Then, with a precision still bewitched by memory, 
she evoked the whole romance, exquisite in its sim- 
plicity, which they had lived together until the end 
of yesterday, until the past horrible night. She 
tried to reawaken in that mind which seemed ob- 
stinately deaf to her words, cherished images, sayings, 
little delightful acts, and made herself tender, caress- 
ing, beseeching. 

Still the unvarying impassiveness of that face, the 
pallor of the features, which seemed set in the black 
beard, the gloomy expression of those deep eyes in 
which she could read nothing — black lakes, where 
everything sunk without reflection, without sound — 
77 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


the lack of comprehension in which Andre, doubtless 
unintentionally, persisted, gradually made her nerv- 
ous, ready to scream. She was struggling against 
an obstinate resistance, speaking to her husband, and 
speaking to him of himself, but realizing that the 
memories evoked recalled nothing to this man, who 
stood there listening indifferently. 

Cecile even shivered with genuine fright when, 
having uttered the name of Fortis, Andre answered: 

“I know him very well. He is my namesake. An- 
other self, if you choose. He is not I. The land- 
scapes you see hung on the wall yonder are by 
him. ,, 

He motioned toward the studies that lined the walls 
of the studio — views of Fontainebleau, Bas-Breau, the 
rocks and streams of the Vaux de Cemay, landscapes 
of Chevreuse, and the valley of Bievre — impressions 
of spring or autumn, morning and sunset scenes, a 
whole series of exquisite perceptions, fixed by the 
brush upon panels or canvas. 

“We are sometimes mistaken for each other in the 
papers. He has some talent / 1 said Andre, in the 
tone of a man making a concession to an art he does 
not admire. “But what is a landscape picture? A 
sketch? Painting, like music, is made to express 
higher ideas, to give to humanity which requires them, 
lives by them, the symbols, the vision of great 
78 


THE AWAKENING 


chimeras. Landscape, it has been said, is a condi- 
tion of the soul. Granted. But there is something 
higher than this painting of a corner of the earth 
that pleases us; it is the painting of the soul itself! 
To grip the human soul by a symphony, as well as by 
a palette, to depict mystery, the incomprehensible, 
that is the ideal! Andre Fortis does not know any- 
thing beyond; he keeps to visible Nature, which 
photography can represent absolutely. Now, in Art, 
there is only the invisible; there is only the dream. 
The man who lives the ordinary existence goes, comes, 
eats, sleeps, breathes, grows old. He does not live. 
This Andre Fortis* whose signature is the same as 
mine, will find it vain to exhibit in the Salon d’Au- 
tomne ; he is a talented artist, yes, but a painter for 
prize medals/ ’ 

So Andre was speaking of his work as a stranger 
would have done. He was judging himself like a 
critic. He was condemning his own efforts in pur- 
suance of a new ideal which he bore within himself. 
If she had felt no fear of the fantastic situation in 
which she was struggling, Cecile might have believed 
it was a jest on the part of this man, who was thus 
commenting on the works he had produced as if they 
had been done by another. And the artist who was 
throwing upon the canvas the apocalyptic vision 
which appeared there, those twisted bodies, those 
79 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


bleeding forms, that sinister King of the World, was 
in truth another, a very different person from the 
poetic landscape painter of summer evenings, the 
smiles of dawn upon silvery ponds. 

Cecile gazed at these studies with tender eyes, as 
if they were the very images of her illusions — all 
that she had loved in that Andre who was no longer 
there, or who, being there, seemed to her only a 
stranger, almost an enemy. 

Suddenly she uttered a cry, in which both joy and 
sadness mingled. 

Among these studies of forests, these woods of Bar- 
bizon or Chailly, she had seen a recent canvas, a bit 
of seacoast, an immense beach and, on the fine sand, 
figures she instantly recognized, her father, her 
mother, and herself, by the side of a young man who 
was He! 

“Ah!” she said, < ‘ Trouville ! ” 

It was Trouville, with the dress she wore the day 
he first saw her, the same weather, the beautiful clear 
sky, the color of Madame de Jandrieu’s gown, the 
bit of the beach very perfectly reproduced, with the 
setting of villas and Norman houses where they had 
met. 

Looking at Andre, pointing with her hand to the 
luminous study, she said again, trying to awaken a 
beloved memory: “It is Trouville.” 

80 


THE AWAKENING 


“A Parisian landscape/ ’ replied Andre, “a water 
color subject. I don’t understand.” 

Once more, either he was playing an outrageous 
farce, or his reason was lost. Cecile did not wish 
to prolong her stay in the studio. She was stifling. 

* ‘ I beg your pardon for having come ! ’ ’ 

He was standing between her and his canvas, as 
if he wished to keep the secret of his work entirely 
to himself. 

* * Oh ! I can be interrupted when I am painting. ’ ’ 

He raised the thin forefinger of his right hand to 

his forehead: 

“My work is there,” he said. 

And his black eyes, just now so expressionless, sud- 
denly flashed, as if illuminated with pride. 

He repeated: there with joy, and Cecile, through 
the half -open door, before she went down the stairs, 
saw him sit on the stool again, take up his palette 
and, bending far over the “work,” feverishly resume 
his painting — the canvas, the subject, the fantastic 
vision having an invisible loadstone which attracted, 
summoned, held him. 


VII 


THE DUTY OF CECILE FORT1S 

Cecile returned to her chamber in despair, and the 
problem presented itself to her again. Should she 
fly? Should she stay? Strike her parents to the 
heart by telling them the truth? Or condemn her- 
self to live alone with a madman? 

A madman? Was he really a madman? The pre- 
cise tone of his words, the manner in which he crit- 
icized the work of this Fortis, to whom he seemed a 
stranger, maintained the clearest expression, appar- 
ently the most accurate form. But, however igno- 
rant she might be of the characteristics of insanity, 
Cecile knew well that lunatics — General de Uandrieu 
had talked about them all one evening in connection 
with a comrade who had died a megalomaniac — retain 
in their visions, or their manias, a baffling logic. 

She knew also, she hoped, that madness might be 
cured. 

‘ ‘ I will stay near him. ’ ’ 

Yes, that was her duty. Perhaps Andre might 
soon return to his senses. Besides, she would spare 
82 


THE DUTY OF CfiCILE FORTIS 


her father and Madame de Jandrieu a terrible sor- 
row. 1 ‘If they could know nothing. Or later. 
Much later !” To suffer a little, to suffer for them 
was becoming, in her thoughts, a sort of bitter joy. 
She was one of those women who are born comforters, 
nurses of the soul, who have an appetite for sacri- 
fice. When very young, in the depths of a church 
chapel, during an attack of religious excitement, she 
had mentally vowed to become a nun. And the fear 
had come to her that she might be guilty for not hav- 
ing kept this vow. “ A child’s vow,” Abbe Vibert 
had told her. “I vowed to become a soldier.” 

Well! Now she would keep this mental vow, this 
cry of a fit of mysticism. She would be to the man 
who was her husband the Sister of Charity, the 
guardian of every hour. Would he suffer? The 
certainty was that she was there to prevent him from 
suffering. 

“I will stay, I will stay.” 

Her resolution was formed. She would convert her 
life, apparently crushed, into a duty, awaiting the 
end of the sinister nightmare, relying upon the fu- 
ture. 

She was only anxious to know what the servants 
would think of Andre’s attitude, his remarks, the 
strangeness of his mental condition. Could she con- 
ceal from these hourly witnesses the sudden change 
83 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


in her husband’s ideas? They would soon perceive 
the disturbance of this unfortunate brain. Then 
Cecile said to herself that, if Andre would consent, 
they could go alone to the South. Italy, Egypt — he 
should choose — and in the solitude of that journey 
of recovery, she would try to regain, to find once 
more in him the man she loved. An impracticable 
plan! Andre, attracted by his work, hypnotized by 
the canvas up there which he was covering with a 
strange, terrifying composition, would never consent 
to leave his studio to go with the woman he called 
Madame , and did not even seem to know. 

The poor wife felt as if she were lost in a dense 
fog. In whatever direction she wished to go, she en- 
countered an impossibility. The best course was to 
trust her life, thus adrift, to chance. Meanwhile, 
once more, she resolved to stay. Let whatever fate 
might decree happen. 

Suddenly, as she was wondering whether to tell 
Andre that luncheon was ready, or try once more, 
by going to his studio, to recall him to her, to seize 
upon and find him again, someone knocked at the 
door of her room and, terrified, dreading she knew 
not what misfortune, she cried: 

‘ 1 Who is there ? ’ ’ 

“I,” said a very gentle voice. 

Cecile recognized it. It was the voice of Andre, 
84 


THE DUTY OF CECILE FORTIS 


not the cold, unfeeling Andre, who let his words fall 
in so curt a tone; no, the voice full of tenderness 
which, during the sweet hours of their engagement, 
had murmured in her ear of the future, dreams of 
the life together, of marriage, of love. Oh! there 
was no doubt of it! It was really the same musical 
and delicious caress to which she had listened, clos- 
ing her eyes, in the little drawing-room in her father ’s 
house, when, hand clasped in hand, Andre was talk- 
ing with her. 

His name rushed from her lips: “Andre!” She 
darted toward the door. There, smiling, gazing at 
her with an indefinable expression of tenderness, half 
sad, half joyous, he stood on the threshold. He did 
not seem to dare to advance, shy, yet happy to gaze, 
set in the framework of this flower-decked room, at 
her who was his wife. 

Cecile went to him with outstretched hands, ready 
to throw her arms around his neck, feeling tears of 
joy spring to her eyes. 

“It is you, it is really you!” 

He came forward, shut the door and clasped her in 
his embrace. 

“It is thou!” 

And this “thou” seemed to her infinitely sweet, as 
the final proof of the disappearance of the night- 


mare. 


85 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 

1 1 How did you spend the night V 9 asked Andre. 

Cecile felt a vague uneasiness in the tone of the 
inquiry, and the young man’s black eyes questioned 
her with a look of suffering, which a ray of happi- 
ness quickly swept away. 

These eyes had an enfolding, imploring love, so 
different from those with the icy pupils, which had 
rested upon her, frightening her. Their gaze had be- 
come the frank, clear look which sought a soul in the 
depths of other eyes, as the feeling in the depths of 
a landscape is sought, a look of reverence, the look 
of the artist, the lover, which restored to Cecile all 
her joy. 

She dared not tell him that she had been waiting 
for him. She did not know whether he was aware 
of the brief attack he had undergone. She did not 
wish to question, she had no desire to know. He was 
there, he was smiling at her, he was speaking to her. 
He had become himself again. Farewell the memory 
of that terrible vision! Life was continuing, re- 
suming its usual course. She blessed Life. 

Yet Andre had an indistinct impression of a gap 
in the last hours he had passed. His questions 
showed it to Cecile. He was inquiring from her, ask- 
ing if anything had disturbed her the past night. 
He — he remembered very well — yes, he remembered 
it — he had grown drowsy in his library, yonder, and 
86 



“‘It is thou!’” 





% 




V. 







THE DUTY OF ClSCILE FORTIS 


had just waked from a sleep in the armchair, with a 
volume of Musset lying at his feet. 

How had he returned there? What had become of 
the strange scene which had terrified Cecile? How 
had Andre put out of the way (as a criminal would 
remove the traces of his crime) the vestiges, the 
proofs of his second life? The Other alone could 
have answered, The Other, who had mathematically 
accomplished an act the real Andre did not even re- 
member and, obeying that other consciousness, put out 
of the way, concealed, hid his work from sight — and 
gave place to a new personality continuing, in the 
same body, a new existence. The same features, but 
different souls. 

“It’s the first time that Musset sent me to sleep,’ ’ 
said Andre Fortis, laughing. “A strange drowsi- 
ness suddenly seized upon me. Did you think of me, 
Cecile, while I was sleeping so near you ? ’ ’ 

“So near me?” 

“In your childlike sleep, did you call me? It 
seems to me,” he added in a very low tone, his lips 
just brushing her pink ear, “that I should have 
heard you!” 

Cecile shuddered. It was really Andre who was 
speaking this time. The attack of insanity was only 
a passing somnambulism that he did not remember on 
awaking. She would not even think of all the ter- 
7 87 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


rible possibilities of an attack which any unexpected 
emotion might bring on again. She had been so 
frightened last night, and just now, by encountering 
some walking puppet, some moving statue, that she 
gave herself up, without analysis or foresight, to this 
joy of finding Andre again what he had been, with 
his old charm and smile. 

“But that sleep was absurd,’ ’ he said. “And, a 
moment ago, on waking in that armchair, I wondered 
where I was. I fairly shivered. I warmed my hands 
at the register. And I thought if I should find my- 
self in the palace of a fairy, the good fairy, the sweet, 
good fairy, was thou!” 

Cecile had taken Andre’s fingers, which were still 
cold, in her hand, and was warming them with her 
breath. 

“It is absurd,” repeated Andre. “A hand that 
seems to press upon the skull — a pleasant torpor — 
and this waking in the chill of the morning ! ’ ’ 

He could not exactly account for the sensation ex- 
perienced. He seemed to be searching, questioning 
his memory. 

“Don’t think about it any more,” said Cecile. 
“I love you. Do you love me, Andre?” 

* 4 With all my soul ! ’ ’ 

“And you will always love me?” 

“Always.” 


88 


THE DUTY OF CECILE FORTIS 


It was the same earnest expression of the words 
uttered in the coupe, so short a time ago — so short a 
time — an age to Cecile who, for a moment, had had a 
glimpse of the horror of a catastrophe. It was the 
same eternal duet of lovers upon the threshold of 
life. She, too, Cecile, fancied that she had had some 
evil dream. What had occurred during the night 
was a vanished vision! Was she very sure that she 
had seen that other Andre, sinister and implacable? 

‘ ‘ I should like to visit your studio, ’ ’ she said. 

“My studio?” 

He seemed astonished. 

“Yes. I am not familiar with it. I should like to 
see some of the paintings you have commenced, the 
sketches — ” 

“Oh! I have nothing to show, even to you. Since 
my picture in the last Salon, I have undertaken noth- 
ing. I was wholly yours. It would have seemed to 
me that, to devote any time to my painting, was rob- 
bing you of hours that I owed you. ’ ’ Then he added 
with charming grace: “The profession of fiance con- 
sumes time.” 

“No matter,” she replied. “I should like to see.” 

“Let us go and see, Madame!” 

And, pronouncing, in the tone of a caress, this 
word Madame , which The Other’ s lips made so harsh 
and, as it were, hostile, he offered his arm to Cecile 
89 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


who, leaning on it, ascended, step by step, smiling, 
the staircase climbed that morning with such a throb- 
bing heart. Sometimes she stopped to say to him: 

“Then it’s really true? I am not dreaming? We 
are at home?” 

But, as she approached the studio, she dreaded sud- 
denly feeling a deep disappointment in finding again 
the other Andre, the formidable Andre, seeing once 
more the sinister, apocalyptic painting, which had 
so startled her a short time before. 

Had not Andre just told her that he had done 
nothing, nothing at all since the last Salon? 

That canvas — that “Golden Calf!” 

Though she tried to control herself, she uttered a 
cry of surprise upon entering the studio and look- 
ing at the easel. The “Golden Calf” was not there. 

No canvas rested on the empty easel. The stool, 
the brushes, the palette were gone. 

“Here are my sketches,” said Andre, showing her 
the studies hung on the wall. “This is all I could 
offer you.” 

“And it is a whole existence of a poet of the brush ! 
Oh ! I am telling the truth ! If I should find a pic- 
ture unworthy of you, you don’t know how I should 
feel, Andre.” 

She stopped. 

“No, I am afraid I might vex you — ” 

90 


THE DUTY OF CECILE FORTIS 


“Vex me? Me? Never. The idea! Well, if you 
should find a picture unworthy of me — such grand 
words! You will make me vain, Madame. Well? ,, 
He waited her reply, while drawing her close to him, 
his lips pressed upon her fair hair. 

Cecile, nestling in his embrace, answered: 

“Well, I should ask you to efface it.” 

“Oh! nonsense,” he replied. 

“Yes, I want my husband, my dear husband, to 
create only masterpieces.” 

“The orders are to be a genius!” he said laughing. 
* * The deuce ! Agreed. I will try ! ’ * 

Cecile looked him steadily in the face. “And you 
really have no other picture commenced in your 
studio?” 

“Really. Not another picture.” 

“There was no canvas placed on your easel this 
morning?” 

“This morning?” he asked, a little anxiously. 
“Why this morning?” 

He had frowned, as if trying to gather Cecile ’s 
meaning. 

She perceived that she was going to disturb him, 
make him uneasy. 

“I said this morning, I might say yesterday.” 

“I have not entered my studio for three days. No 
one has entered it. Did anybody tell you that there 

91 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


was a canvas on my easel ? What canvas ? Who has 
seen that canvas? I have commenced no picture, 
not any. Why do you ask me that?” 

“For no special reason,” she replied. “An empty 
easel looks dreary, so I thought — ” 

“Well,” replied Andre, “my first picture on the 
easel will be, look, this Trouville, whose sketch hangs 
yonder, and if I regain the impression of that hour 
of light — you remember, you remember — it will be 
the masterpiece you require.” 

Cecile looked at this exquisitely subtle landscape, 
the bit of sea, the beach, the villas, this study in the 
brilliant light, which had attracted her attention just 
now and, fixed by Andre’s brush, contained a mo- 
ment of his life. 

If she had not found this nook of Normandy which 
The Other — for she could give him only this name — 
had scornfully declared a water color study fit for 
some English girl, she might have believed that she 
had been dreaming, that she had not entered this 
studio, that there had never been a painting on this 
easel, and the sinister vision, with the mass of bodies 
crushed by the Beast, did not exist. 

The terrible picture had disappeared. Andre told 
the truth, he had not undertaken any new work. A 
sort of unforeseen being, a passer-by, some fantastic 
visitor, had come to disappear again. Now Cecile 
92 


THE DUTY OF c£ CILE FORTIS 


was wondering whether she had really seen the can- 
vas which was no longer there, whether all the 
agonies of the past night were not an illusion, and she 
had experienced a waking dream. 

Little she eared! She felt such joy in finding 
Andre again as trusting, smiling, and as much in love 
as the night before. 

Cecile had no farther fear. With the facility a 
happy illusion bestows, she closed her eyes and gave 
herself up to the joy of her recovered happiness! 
Ah! the nightmare of that frightful night! It was 
far, far, so very far away ! 

“Do you love me?” she said softly, resting her 
pretty, fair head, with her familiar movement, upon 
Andre’s shoulder. 

And he, in the voice so unlike the harsh accent of 
that evil vision, repeated the eternal words of eternal 
love: 

“I worship you!” 

“So, my dear Doctor, you firmly believe that a man 
may have a double consciousness ? ’ ’ 

It was when dessert was served at a grand dinner 
given by Madame de Vernier e partly in honor of Mon- 
sieur and Madame Fortis, who were so perfectly 
happy. Famous, too ! In the last Salon Andre For- 
tis had exhibited wonderfully poetic landscapes and 
93 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


brought back exquisite canvases from Italy, where, for 
months, he had traveled with Cecile, sometimes living 
in Venice, sometimes in Palermo, in the picturesque 
little cities of Umbria, or the exquisite corners of the 
Bay of Naples. It was an Italy seen through a new 
temperament, no longer the theatrical country of the 
romantic artists, a rare, deep Italy, with a modernity 
that seemed like a new flower blooming amid the mar- 
bles of the past. 

Cecile had been the artist’s wife exactly one year, 
and not an allusion had been made by her or Andre 
to the singular event of their first night beneath the 
same roof. Not a word had led Cecile to believe that 
Andre had any knowledge of what had passed, or had 
caused Andre to suspect that Cecile had perceived 
anything abnormal. Perhaps, by a sort of tacit con- 
sent, they both maintained silence concerning what 
there was — or rather what there had been — mysterious 
in their existence. Perhaps the young wife had en- 
tirely forgotten those hours of terror. The year 
which had just passed — so quickly — with the stay in 
Italy, the return to Trouville, where Andre finished 
the promised canvas, a landscape of high life as pro- 
found, as intensely poetic, under his brush, as a view 
of Sicily, or a corner of Sorrento. This first happy 
year of marriage had passed like a flash of lightning 
on a summer evening. General de Jandrieu, proud of 
94 


THE DUTY OF CECILE FORTIS 


his son-in-law, often told his wife that they had been 
fortunate, and charming Madame de Jandrieu tried to 
appear ‘ ‘ the least like a mother-in-law that was possi- 
ble’ ’ in the new household. She was thinking solely 
of the delight of being a grandmother and hearing 
herself called some sweet pet name by stammering 
rosy lips. 

4 ‘They have plenty of time,” replied the general. 

“But we, my dear?” she said. 

And at the dinner given by Madame de Verniere, 
Cecile ’s godmother, Andre Fortis again met Dr. 
Chardin, whom he had gone to consult last year almost 
at this very date, and the question of a guest — a jour- 
nalist who was always eager to gather information 
about everything — turned the conversation to the pre- 
cise subject that had been a dramatic agony. Across 
the table, while carrying on with his neighbor, a witty 
little brunette, fascinated by all the current fads, a 
conversation which, on her part, consisted in demol- 
ishing nearly all the Art of the past, and on his in de- 
fending certain masters, Andre was listening to the 
remarks of Dr. Chardin, at whose right Cecile was 
seated. 


VIII 


A SCIENTIFIC INTERVIEW 

The journalist repeated his inquiry as he would 
have questioned the scientist in an interview. 

4 1 Can a person have a double conscience ? * ’ 

4 4 Certainly. There are even several consciences, ac- 
cording to professions and duties. The conscience of 
a stock-broker, for instance, is not the same as a Prot- 
estant pastor’s. I created an uproar in the class room 
of Monsieur Desire Nisard, and was even posted for 
having hooted the professor when he told us that there 
were two moralities. Perhaps he simply failed to ex- 
plain himself clearly : there are often as many morali- 
ties as situations.” 

4 4 Oh ! Doctor!” said Madame de Yerniere. 

4 4 Understand me accurately, Madame, there is, in 
reality, only one morality, one sole morality, but there 
are different ways of interpreting it. And without re- 
sorting to casuistry — ” 

4 4 But, Doctor,” interrupted the journalist, “that is 
not the conscience I mean; it is the double condition 
of which I want to speak — my mind is full of it — I 
96 


A SCIENTIFIC INTERVIEW 


want to publish a series of articles upon la Sal- 
petriere — ” 

‘‘And you are asking me for copy? Like this, at 
dessert, as a sort of cheese ! ’ 9 said Dr. Chardin, begin- 
ning to laugh. 4 ‘Well, yes, the personality of a hu- 
man being can be halved, and consequently have two 
consciences. We know of cases of periodical am- 
nesia, that is, periodical loss of memory, and during 
these amnesias the conscience is evidently different.’ ’ 

“That’s the question I wanted to ask you, Doctor. 
A man has, as you call it, his personality divided — 
very well — then his life is double as well as his con- 
sciousness.” 

“Yes, that is a scientific phenomenon that has be- 
come classic — ” 

“I know — the state of amnesia of which you speak 
may be compared, for instance, to the condition of a 
somnambulist, who goes, comes, reads, works, without 
recollecting anything upon awaking.” 

“Almost,” said Dr. Chardin; “though there may 
be some differences.” 

“I know—” 

“Journalists know everything,” replied the physi- 
cian. 

“What is that gentleman’s name?” Cecile asked her 
right-hand neighbor. 

“Frederic Clement, of the Boulevard.” 

97 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“But — this is the question I should like to be per- 
mitted to ask you, my dear Doctor” — said the jour- 
nalist: “I will suppose that, during this condition of 
amnesia, double consciousness, or no consciousness, as 
you prefer, the divided man of whom we are speaking 
commits a crime, yes, murders or robs someone, is he 
responsible? Has a somnambulist responsibility for 
his acts of somnambulism?” 

Cecile, for a moment, felt a pang akin to the suf- 
fering experienced the previous year, and while these 
remarks were being exchanged, she watched Andre, 
who sat opposite to her, to study upon his face the im- 
pression he might receive from such a conversation. 
Through the flowers, camellias and chrysanthemums, 
of the centerpiece, his face appeared absolutely im- 
passive, only somewhat pale under the electric light 
which fell upon half his forehead, and the thin cheeks 
framed by his black beard. Perhaps there was some 
uneasiness in the fixity of attention in his look, as if 
tensely strained toward Dr. Chardin, though his lips 
were smiling and answering the little brunette lady, 
who was making, with her pretty teeth, a mere mouth- 
ful of the “Black” painting of the Venetians of the 
Museum, Tintoretto, Titian — those ink merchants. 

Frederic Clement’s question had attracted the 
attention of the whole table. Dr. Chardin was becom- 
ing the center of all eyes, and Cecile awaited the phy- 
98 


A SCIENTIFIC INTERVIEW 


sician’s reply as if the journalist’s inquiry had ex- 
pressed her own anxiety. 

“That question has already been asked,” said the 
doctor. “I believe melodramas have even been writ- 
ten on the subject. I remember having seen one a 
long time ago, in a provincial theater, where the plot 
dealt with a magistrate who, in a state of somnambu- 
lism, committed a crime and had to preside at the 
very court before which the supposed murderer was 
tried.” 

“An innocent man?” 

“An innocent man, of course.” 

“And how did the drama end, Doctor?” asked Ma- 
dame de Verniere. 

“By a fortunate conclusion, dear Madame. In the 
midst of the trial the magistrate, an assassin without 
knowing it, was suddenly seized with one of his at- 
tacks of somnambulism and, before the eyes of the be- 
wildered jury and his horrified colleagues, repeated, 
with tragical exactness, the acts of the murder — 
using his paper knife as he had handled the dagger in 
a former act — and he himself related why he had 
killed, why he had avenged himself. Then followed 
the acquittal of the accused man, the embraces of the 
family, the applause of the spectators. I will spare 
you the falling of the curtain. ’ 9 

“And the magistrate?” asked Cecile. 

99 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“Really, I don’t know what the author did with 
him. I don’t recollect the end, I only remember that 
the case medically was connected with the play. ’ ’ 
“Well, but, my dear Doctor,” Frederic Clement 
persisted, “in your thought as a spectator, in your 
estimate as a scientific man, was the magistrate who 
wielded the knife guilty?” 

It seemed to Cecile that an expression of suffering 
was kindling like a smouldering flame in Andre’s 
eyes, which had now become fixed. 

“No, no; in my opinion he was not guilty. The 
man who had murdered was in some way very differ- 
ent from the man who was judging the case. These 
amnesias, these losses of memory, these divisions of 
the personality, are complete neuroses. Somnambu- 
lism transforms a certain individual into a totally 
new human being for a certain period of time. In- 
toxication does the same. The drunkard is a tempo- 
rary maniac. The best of men, on becoming intoxi- 
cated, may be changed into a complete brute, fierce 
and bestial. People are not mistaken who speak sci- 
entifically without knowing it, when they, for in- 
stance, say of a coward: ‘He is white-livered,’ and 
of a drunkard: ‘He is quarrelsome in his cups.’ 
The man who dreams, as well as the man who drinks, 
has two very distinct lives : his real existence and his 
factitious one, and one is independent of the other. 

100 


A SCIENTIFIC INTERVIEW 


Therefore he is not responsible for the duality of 
consciousness this strange neurosis, the dividing of his 
pesonality, imposes upon him.” 

‘‘Two beings in one, two different human lives in 
the existence of the same man ? Why, you are telling 
us an Edgar Poe story/ ’ 

“Not at all. The matter has nothing to do with 
the grotesque tales of the American author. I am 
speaking of classified, catalogued, scientifically known 
facts. Why — only the other day a soldier in uniform 
was found sleeping on a bench in the Boulevard des 
Batignolles, with his trousers covered with mud. He 
was supposed to be drunk. When, on being waked, 
they questioned him, he did not know how to explain 
his presence in Paris. He was in garrison at Limoges, 
and from Limoges he had come there, without know- 
ing why, without knowing how, having left the bar- 
racks under an incomprehensible impulse and walked, 
walked, walked straight on as if he were in a dream. 
He was brought before a court-martial as a deserter. 
Deserter ! The poor fellow was not in the least guilty. 
It was not he who had left the regiment, wandered 
from Limoges to Paris, it was another man.” 

“How many romances could be made from sci- 
ence !” remarked Madame de Verniere. 

“And history, too, Madame. What if I should tell 
you that the Wandering 'Jew — you know, the famous 
101 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Wandering Jew of ballad and legend — was undoubt- 
edly simply a somnambulist ! ’ ’ 

‘‘Old Laquedem?” 

‘ ‘ Certainly. It has been observed that this particu- 
lar neurosis, from which the little soldier was suffer- 
ing, and which is called the ambulatory mania, the 
necessity of escaping, walking, going forward, one 
knows not where, attacks the Jews quite frequently. 
Now, in our French villages, at different periods, 
Jews from Poland and Roumania have often arrived, 
with their long beards, their furred overcoats, staff 
in hand, and these Jews appearing thus, walking 
straight forward, like the foot-soldier going from Li- 
moges to Paris, these Jews thus urged by the ambula- 
tory mania appearing at various dates have, in the 
imagination of our peasants — and even of the citizens 
of Brussels in Brabant — incarnated the Jew pursued 
by the malediction of Calvary. Stricken by neurosis, 
a species of traveling somnambulists, beings who have 
fled from their firesides without knowing why, will 
perhaps return to die, without realizing that they 
have deserted them. Doctor Tissie met one of these 
wanderers, who was walking more than seventy kilo- 
meters a day in this dreaming condition. He set out 
after taking bank bills whose value he did not even 
know in his secondary condition, and was walking on 
like a tramp. He has been seen thus in Germany, 
102 


A SCIENTIFIC INTERVIEW 


Turkey, Hungary, Russia, Africa. In Russia, he was 
almost hung for a Nihilist — in a dream ! The gibbet 
would have seen an innocent man, an unconscious man 
die. And these wanderers continue to move about 
in their ambulatory dreams — these are some of the 
beings who lead a double life, and it is not from Ed- 
gar Poe, once more, that they are quoted, but from 
Charcot !” 

“And,” asked the journalist, “have you ever met 
this sort of somnambulists who lead this double life? 
Tell us that, Doctor.” 

Across the flower-decked table, in the heated atmos- 
phere of the dining-room, it again seemed to Cecile 
that Andre’s eyes suddenly assumed an alarming, al- 
most savage expression. His face had paled, a slight 
quiver stirred his lower lip, and a singular, slow, al- 
most mechanical, gesture of the right hand seemed 
vaguely seeking a knife on the white tablecloth. 

Andre was waiting, watching with a tightening in 
his throat for the physician’s reply: 

“I might have met some,” replied Dr. Chardin 
coldly, “of whom I should not tell you, but if 
you wish to write an article on the subject, my 
dear sir, you should not apply to me, but to Dr. 
Klipper.” 

“Dr. Klipper?” 

“Yes, he is an Alsatian. And a man of genius.” 

8 103 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“Dr. Klipper,” repeated the journalist. “It’s as- 
tonishing. I don’t know him.” 

“Doubtless no one here knows him,” replied Dr. 
Chardin, seeking with his eyes some one of the guests 
who might contradict him by speaking of Dr. Klip- 
per. “He is an extraordinary man who, in his labora- 
tory recalls the alchemists Rembrandt painted and 
evoked in his engravings. He lives in an out-of-the- 
way comer in search of a mystery, as Balzac’s Bal- 
thazer Claes was pursuing the unknown, and he pre- 
tends to have found, or to be on the eve of finding, an 
instrument, an X or Y or Z ray, which would enable 
the human brain to be read through the skull like an 
open book.” 

“He is a lunatic,” said Madame de Verniere. 

“Not at all. I have already told you: he is a man 
of genius! But an attempt has already been made 
to prove genius a neurosis. ’ ’ 

“Oh! I must go and interview Dr. Klipper,” said 
the contributor to the Boulevard. 

Dr. Chardin shook his head. 

“You will not make him speak. I don’t even know 
that you will succeed in seeing him.” 

“Indeed! But if I need him, if I am ill, if I carry 
sickness, as one would say in the regiment?” 

“Dr. Klipper does not practice.” 

“What does he do?” 


104 


A SCIENTIFIC INTERVIEW 


“I have already told you: he investigates.” 

The physician glanced at the guests who were lis- 
tening, interested by the mystery. 

“And if I should try to specify what he is seeking, 
you would exclaim over its improbability, and believe 
it some tale of Poe, Wells, or Stevenson.” 

“Tell us, Doctor!” 

“Doctor, you are making our mouths water!” 

“What is your Jean Klipper seeking?” 

Andre was waiting more eagerly than anyone else 
for the explanation from Dr. Chardin solicited by 
these pretty women, these table neighbors who were 
becoming as silent as if the master had been there in 
the flesh or commenced a lecture. 

“Really, it is difficult to explain it to you without 
becoming a little pedantic. I beg your pardon, ladies, 
but I shall seem apparently incomprehensible.” 

“You insult us, Doctor,” said Madame de Vemiere, 
laughing. “I protest in the name of these ladies.” 

“Well,” replied Dr. Chardin, “this astonishing, 
extraordinary and, I repeat, original genius, Jean 
Klipper — you see that doctors do not always 
attack each other like wolves, artists, and — pardon 
me, sir, journalists — Dr. Klipper is seeking our 
third eye.” 

“What did you say?” 

“I said our third eye!” 

105 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“What does that mean?” asked the mistress of the 
house, in the name of all her guests. 

“Simply that — like all vertebrate animals — we have 
there, look, under the forehead, a gland named by 
the zoologists the pineal gland or pine-cone, the pineal 
body, the cone, and that this gland, in spite of its 
name, is in reality neither a gland, nor a nerv- 
ous ganglion, nor a lymphatic ganglion, but a de- 
generate organ — that this pseudo-gland may therefore 
he considered as a third eye, an eye which we have in 
us in the latent state, an eye which has not developed, 
which has not emerged, which has not perforated the 
cranium, but which exists and which physiologists 
have found at the end of their scalpels.” 

“Then,” said the reporter, “this eye would explain 
the fable of the Cyclops.” 

“Exactly. We may imagine that there was a time 
when this third eye appeared in the middle of the 
foreheads of unknown men of primitive or fabulous 
times. I am not talking to you about absurd things. 
It is certain that this rudimentary, degenerate organ, 
which to-day serves no purpose except to perpetuate in 
us the remembrance of one that existed in our re- 
mote ancestors, is an atavic legacy, atrophied in the 
course of years. Oh ! Dr. Klipper is not alone in hav- 
ing studied this pineal gland epiphysis. Rabl Ruck- 
hard, in 1882, noticed it in fishes, and declared that it 
106 


A SCIENTIFIC INTERVIEW 


is really an eye. De Graaf, in 1886, studied it in the 
blind-worm, the pretty reptile which may frighten 
you, ladies, in the avenues of the forest of Fontaine- 
bleau, but which is more inoffensive than a house-spar- 
row, the blind-worm, a sham serpent, a degenerate 
lizard. And Rawlin Spencer is studying this third 
eye in the lizards. It is also found, very plain and 
distinctly characterized in the bird, for instance, in 
the pigeon. In the pigeon, and in man.” 

“ Which is often the same thing,” remarked a wit. 

There was some slight laughter, but not much. 
Dr. Chardin’s little speech was captivating the atten- 
tion of the guests. 

1 ‘ Only,” he went on, “in the pigeon the organ in 
question is apparent, while in man, it requires prepa- 
ration to see it, the removal of the whole upper por- 
tion of the hemispheres. Let us not talk about it; it 
is not a subject suitable to serve with dessert. It is 
only Thomas Diafoirus who entertains ladies with 
these beautiful surgical affairs.” 

“But, Doctor,” somewhat timidly interrupted an 
old gentleman, a great reader and bibliophilist, “you 
know that Descartes has spoken of the pineal gland, 
of your third eye? My very learned friend, Profes- 
sor S. Pozzi, reminded me of it the other day. Des- 
cartes even claimed that there, yes, in this gland, was 
the seat of the soul.” 


107 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“Not entirely. I don’t remember his statement. 
But you are right, sir; Descartes has mentioned it, 
and Galien before Descartes. Yet neither has thought 
of what Jean Klipper dreams — that is, to give to man 
this third eye of which he is deprived ! ’ ’ 

“The supplementary eye?” 

“Where is it? In the middle of the forehead!” 

“It’s bewildering!” 

“It’s Cyclopean!” 

“It’s frightful!” 

“An eye in the forehead! Oh, horrible!” 

The interruptions came from every direction, like 
exploding torpedoes. And Dr. Chardin quietly en- 
joyed the amazement of his listeners. The interjec- 
tions amused the scientist, who was accustomed to 
these expressions of bewilderment in the presence of 
surprises. 

“Pshaw! it’s a matter of habit,” he said; “if it 
should become the fashion, it would be considered a 
beauty spot. And then, it would be useful! The 
Cyclops must have had less fear of being blinded by 
sparks than modern blacksmiths. One eye more would 
be more life, and life is to man the most precious com- 
modity, a loan of a few years which, when due, he 
must pay without date to the great Usurer. Now, 
this is why I told you that Jean Klipper had genius. 
He has a young and pretty wife, whom he worships 
108 


A SCIENTIFIC INTERVIEW 


— and who is blind. It is for her that he increases 
his labors and attempts the impossible. The unfor- 
tunate woman’s sight is gone. He wants to restore 
it to her. She no longer has her eyes. They are 
closed, they can see only the light, without distin- 
guishing the form of objects. It is this third eye that 
he desires to give back to her.” 

“ Nonsense!” cried the reporter. 

‘ ‘What I am telling you may not seem credible, yet 
it is the simple truth. Dr. Klipper has invented a 
sort of electrical lamp, casting its ray upon the young 
woman’s forehead, performing, in some measure, the 
function of the solar rays upon the earth. The sun 
makes the invisible seed sprout. The doctor hopes 
that the electricity, penetrating along the bones of 
this human creature — I do not use the scientific 
terminology to explain this to you, I am trying to 
make myself understood, and it is somewhat difficult, 
for I repeat, this has an air of insanity — the elec- 
tricity, penetrating, perforating, enlarging the hole in 
the skull through which the pineal nerve issues, pro- 
ducing an unexpected growth, will cause this third 
eye to expand, to open, and restore sight to his be- 
loved blind wife! I am not relating a romance, I 
am quoting a fact, a case. We have seen so many 
scientific miracles. You will see, and we shall see 
others. ’ ’ 


109 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“ Where does Jean Klipper live, that I may go to 
him at once?” cried Clement joyfully. “What a 
revelation! What an article!” 

All Dr. Chardin’s hearers were exchanging incredu- 
lous remarks. Pretty sceptical smiles rested on the 
lips of the women. Cecile alone was perhaps inter- 
ested, even troubled, knowing that everything was 
possible. Madame de Verniere said to the scientist: 
“You are telling us stories like Scheherezade. ” 

“No, no, I am talking like the phonograph. I be- 
long to my own day. The impossible is trite. ’ ’ 

“Then,” stated Andre, his eyes sparkling, “this 
Doctor Klipper is really capable of working miracles. ’ ’ 

“No, but he is capable of making discoveries which 
would unsettle all knowledge and all laws. He is the 
advance guard of those scientists who are pointing 
out unknown lands. It is possible that he may fail. 
But he is not a charlatan, who creates an uproar over 
his investigations; he is, I say once more, a solitary 
man who silently pursues them in obscurity. And I 
have told you that this devil of a man has already 
made an infinity of observations on the human brain 
which astonish the licensed scientists, and myself, who 
am not a timid person.” 

“But is this man Mephistopheles ? ” said Madame de 
Verniere. 

“No, he is an excellent fellow and a worthy Alsa- 

110 


A SCIENTIFIC INTERVIEW 


tian, without affectation or malice, who is satisfied 
with upsetting the world from the depths of a cellar, 
in a laboratory as big as this napkin.” 

“He doesn’t live on the Brocken?” 

* ‘No, in the Batignolles. Oh ! the fantastic is within 
the reach of everyone. To see wizards we need only 
to take a ticket on the Metropolitan.” 

“I’ll get the ticket! I’ll make your wizard talk! 
And the Boulevard will publish his picture on the first 
page.” 

“And you will not say that I have not warned you 
of the genius! He is a man of genius!” 

“Cracked! Off!” 

“It is only fools who have no crack.” 

During the exchange of these remarks Cecile felt the 
sensation of uneasiness and suffering increase, and, 
without seeming to do so, continued to watch her hus- 
band, whose face, with its dead whiteness, appeared 
paler than usual, the black beard framing the thin- 
ness of the Saracenic countenance. The feverish bril- 
liancy of his eyes did not escape the notice of the 
poor wife, trembling lest she should again see the 
strange fire that had glittered in the wild eyes bent 
upon the canvas, the vision of Apocalypse, in the 
studio, on that unforgettable night. 

All this conversation at dessert, half scientific, half 
Parisian, was turning around the alarming case of 
111 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Andre Fortis. To Cecile, he was the center of the 
discussion. She was searching, feeling with the acute- 
ness of the being who loves, all that Andre must 
suffer if he realized his condition, if he still had fears 
of another attack. She was asking herself if these 
remarks, that amused the guests like the gossip of the 
day, might not awaken in the unfortunate man a per- 
ception, a remembrance, a sorrow. 

The feverishness of the look, the movements of the 
clenched fingers, did not permit a doubt that Andre 
was suffering, was repressing painful sensations while 
the physician was speaking. But everything vanished 
when they rose from the table and Dr. Chardin, of- 
fering Madame Fortis his arm, the guests entered the 
drawing-room, the men going very soon to the smok- 
ing-room, where the journalist continued to interview 
the physician, while Andre remained with the mistress 
of the house, as if he desired, by talking with the 
ladies, to drive away the besetting thoughts, the sor- 
rowful dream of his life. 

“So,” Frederic Clement repeated, “your Dr. Flip- 
per is a gentleman, and has some fine surprises in 
store for us. ’ ’ 

“If he doesn’t stop on the way, yes. You know 
that Pasteur had a cerebral hemorrhage which almost 
carried him off or left his intellect impaired, which 
would have been sadder still ? On the whole, this at- 
112 


A SCIENTIFIC INTERVIEW 


tack was benignant. But suppose that a little more 
blood, something the size of a lentil, had penetrated 
the brain — all the marvelous discoveries of the great 
scientist would have been over. The length of Cleo- 
patra^ nose, it appears, influenced the world. A lit- 
tle shorter would have changed the fate of the uni- 
verse. A drop of blood more or less and mankind 
would have kept rabies. It keeps it in politics, it is 
true, and the parties have not yet found their Pas- 
teur. As for Jean Klipper, if he remains, if he lasts 
— everything depends upon lasting in this vile world 
— he will amaze his century and, some day, will have 
his statue . 7 7 

‘‘Which would not prove, my dear Doctor , 7 7 re- 
marked the journalist, “that he is a peerless man. 
Who has not his statue now-a-days? Who does not 
have his marble? Who does not have his confetti ? 77 

Dr. Chardin began to laugh. 

“Ah! you incorrigible Parisian, you are always 
playing the wit ! 77 

“What do you expect? You are always pursuing 
science ! 7 7 

As, having finished his cigar, the physician joined 
Madame de Verniere on the threshold of the drawing- 
room, he found Ceeile, who appeared to be watching 
for him. She forced a smile, suspecting that Andre 
would not lose sight of her while she was talking with 
113 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


the doctor, and trying to give the conversation the 
appearance of a commonplace interchange of insignifi- 
cant words, she said very quickly to Chardin, in an 
extremely low tone : 

“Don’t be surprised at the smile which will con- 
trast with what I am going to say to you, Doctor, and 
forgive me for speaking of it here. But I know one 
of those cases of divided personality of which you 
were speaking. Take care ; we are noticed. ’ ’ 

Dr. Chardin, accustomed to maintain his impassive- 
ness while receiving confidences or witnessing human 
suffering, did not allow his face, smooth-shaven a la 
Yankee, to betray the slightest surprise. 

He said slowly: 

“Ah! you know!” 

“I have seen,” she said. 

Cecile maintained her smile. 

“A serious attack?” asked Chardin, who also af- 
fected indifference. 

Andre ’s eyes did not leave him. 

“A few hours.” 

“When?” 

“A year ago.” 

“And since then?” 

“Nothing. But I am afraid — ■” 

“Fear is the worst counselor of man. Don’t be 
afraid of being an optimist. I carefully watched just 
114 


A SCIENTIFIC INTERVIEW 


now the person of whom you wished to speak to me. 
And in my chat there was a sort of experiment at- 
tempted — he listened without too much nervous- 
ness — ” 

“Yet — ” she said. 

Then, pausing: 

“He is watching; he is conjecturing !” 

The physician finished rapidly : 

‘ ‘ There will perhaps be some storm again — there is 
electricity in the air. I noticed it, but the thunder 
is very distant. Besides, I am here!” 

He added, bowing like a society man who was 
thanking Madame Fortis for a cup of tea : 

“And, if necessary, we will call in Dr. Miracle.’ ’ 

“This Dr. Klipper? You are serious?” 

“Very serious.” 

“A prince of science consulting a bone-setter?” 

“Oh, it is no appeal to a bone-setter. Besides, I 
should not despise a bone-setter who would cure me!” 

Andre seemed to be watching somewhat anxiously 
from a distance the brief dialogue, whose earnestness 
was concealed under commonplace society manner- 
isms. Cecile went toward him, making her smile ex- 
press as much joyousness as possible. 

“What was Dr. Chardin saying to you?” asked the 
artist. 

“He was talking about your views of Venice.” 

115 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“Really?” 

“What would you expect him to say to me?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Andre. Then he added 
dreamily : 

“Venice? Ah! The exquisite city to lull one into 
forgetfulness!” 

“And to love,” said Cecile, whose gaze rested ten- 
derly upon the seeker of dreams. 

Andre returned with a smile the smile of the wife 
who comforted and hoped. 


THE MALADY RETURNS 


To hope ! 

In the luxurious apartment facing the Park Mon- 
ceau, Madame Fortis was living between hope and 
fear. Nothing was making her believe that her hus- 
band might fall back into the clutch of his malady, 
yet everything was making her dread that the 
“stranger” would suddenly revive in the man she 
loved. 

Since that evening at Madame de Verniere’s Andre 
had appeared more nervous than usual, and, in spite 
of Dr. Chardin’s assurance, Cecile dreaded, like a 
specter, the apparition of that Other whom she had 
seen. She was terrified by this sort of living phan- 
tom, stranger, intruder. 

She avoided making the slightest allusion to the 
doctor’s words. Andre worked a great deal with a 
sort of feverish eagerness. Cecile even feared that 
this rage for work might put a little too much strain 
upon his nerves. She sometimes begged him to give 
himself rests, vacation days. 

117 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“No, you know that I am happy only when I am 
before my canvases. And with you, my darling ! ’ ’ 

“ Besides/ ’ he said one evening, “what is finished 
is finished. We never know what may happen.” 

“What do you expect to happen?” 

“Nothing. I am joking. Some art admirer who 
will carry off my landscapes.” 

Yet Cecile insisted that he should seek some amuse- 
ment to divert his mind. There were monthly din- 
ners of artists where, meeting his companions, he 
could talk of all the thousand and one stories current 
in the studios, drawing-rooms, or behind the scenes, 
which render Paris the largest of small provincial 
towns. He had neglected these meetings since his 
marriage. Cecile urged him to go to them. 

“And your club? Usually wives are jealous of the 
club. I am not. You see your friends, you talk, you 
rest — ” 

“But nothing, my dear Cecile, is worth an evening 
spent with you, near you ! ’ ’ 

‘ 1 Oh ! I am sure of that, ’ ’ she replied with caressing 
coquetry. ‘ 4 Only, you know the old song : 

“A wedded wife 
May be found, may be found 
Forever and aye!” 

She had the feeling that this restless brain needed 
much diversion, and persisted: “My parents are to 
118 


THE MALADY RETURNS 


entertain some tiresome people to-night. I will go to 
them, and you won’t be bored by spending the even- 
ing with people who talk nothing but nonsense. Or 
you shall come for me very late, just as they are 
leaving. ’ ’ 

Then Andre dressed and went out, and Cecile, 
knowing that he was at the club, was satisfied that 
the artist, overwhelmed by the labor of the day, needed 
this change of scene and different atmosphere. Soli- 
tude, favorable to work, might be painful to the mind 
if, by chance, Andre was remembering — 

And he had assented to seeking in the bustle, the 
change, a variation from the daily life, in whose back- 
ground Cecile feared there might be an obsession. 

“And, you know, I am ambitious for you. Yes. 
Friendships must be cultivated. Do you see many 
members of the Institute at the club? When I mar- 
ried, I promised papa that you would become one. ’ ’ 

“What,” replied Andre, “have I married a 
climberV y 

One evening she came home rather late from Gen- 
eral de Jandrieu’s. Andre was at the club. She felt 
somewhat lonely in the house, where everyone was 
sleeping, and, without knowing why, experienced a 
vague uneasiness. She did not want to go to bed 
until Andre returned. She gazed out of her favorite 
window at the Park Monceau, which seemed covered 
9 119 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


with very black ink, a few branches scarcely visible 
against the slightly clearer sky, and the everlasting 
Gounod monument, its whiteness still distinct. And 
each time she found herself standing there again, with 
her forehead pressed against this same glass, she re- 
called the sorrowful night of their first arrival in the 
apartment, the horror of the vision the next morn- 
ing. 

“I won’t think of it any more,” she said to her- 
self. 4 ‘It is so far off.” 

She waited, wishing Andre to find her up, or rather 
letting the hours drift by in thought, and it was three 
o’clock in the morning — the strokes were sounding 
from the clock — when he came in. 

“How late you are,” she said. 

He looked at the timepiece. “Why, that is true! 
Time flies. I did not think it was midnight.” 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” 

“Upon my word, no!” 

“Whom did you see?” 

“A lot of people. I didn’t know half of them.” 

He seemed tired, and had no wish to talk. His 
eyes wandered toward the clock and rested there with 
a surprised expression. 

‘ ‘ Three o ’clock ! ” he said. “ It is strange ! ’ ’ 

Drawing out his watch, he glanced at the hands 
again. 


120 


THE MALADY RETURNS 


“ Three o’clock, it really is three o’clock — it’s as- 
tonishing.” 

He passed his hand over his forehead, as if he felt 
some pain. 

“Are you suffering?” 

“No.” 

“Is there anything that troubles you?” 

“Nothing.” 

He fell asleep as if tired out. The next morning 
Cecile found him restless, his face worn, haggard, 
thoughtful. 

He had mechanically laid his pocketbook upon the 
mantelpiece the night before, and Cecile, from her 
dressing-room, saw him standing before this mantel- 
piece. The open mirror door of a wardrobe showed 
the young wife the reflection of her husband, who 
with a gesture of bewilderment, opened the pocket- 
book and remained motionless in amazement, staring 
at a bundle of bank bills he had taken out. Andre’s 
whole attitude expressed such stupefaction that Cecile, 
hidden in the dressing-room, stayed there in silence to 
watch him, repressing the questions that rose to her 
lips. 

Andre was now turning the pocketbook over and 
over like a man who encounters some unfamiliar ob- 
ject. He touched the bank bills with his fingers, 
creased them, counted them, then once more examined 
121 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


the pocketbook. A dark-green leather one with silver 
letters, his own, the very one Cecile had given him. 
Yes, his fiancee had designed that old silver mono- 
gram herself. 

His pocketbook? 

But how came a bundle of bank bills this morning 
in the pocketbook that contained the night before 
three hundred francs — three bills of one hundred 
each ? 

‘‘Fifty-two bills! Fifty- two thousand francs !” 

Andre’s thin hand passed over his brow with the 
familiar gesture. 

He looked at himself in the glass, and saw that he 
was very pale. 

Cecile, as motionless as he was just before, pressing 
against the wall of her dressing-room, saw him turn 
his head around, his eyes searching to discover if he 
was seen. Then he quickly slipped the book into an 
inner pocket of his morning coat, which he buttoned 
with a rapid gesture ; his whole anxious face expressed 
the fear of being watched, the desire to escape no- 
tice. The countenance bore the look of a robber who 
has just committed a theft, and wants to fly. 

Cecile was now trembling from head to foot. 

She had seen those movements of fingers handling, 
creasing the notes, and she, too, had counted the num- 
ber of the bank bills Andre was touching and reckon- 
122 



“Andre’s thin hand passed over his brow with the familiar gesture.” 





THE MALADY RETURNS 


ing. Where did they come from ? How were they in 
the pocketbook which she recognized so well ? Andre ’s 
bewilderment had not escaped her any more than his 
final wish not to be seen, to hide these notes. She 
found herself once more in the presence of something 
mysterious and disturbing. But she would know. 

She went out of her dressing-room. 

Andre, his features visibly contracted, tried to 
smile. Then he alleged the necessity of going to his 
studio. He wanted, before luncheon, to add a few 
strokes of the brush, to finish a bit of Sorrento. 

“Are not you tired? Don’t work too much.” 

“One never works too much.” 

“You haven’t told me what you did at the club 
yesterday.” 

“Nothing. Talked. A commonplace, wasted even- 
ing.” 

He did not speak of the notes, the pocketbook, the 
astonishment which had overwhelmed him, that she 
had read clearly just now. 

Cecile let him go. While lunching, she would ques- 
tion him. 

But, precisely at the luncheon hour, General and 
Madame de 'Jandrieu came to pay their daughter a 
visit. The general was returning from the funeral of 
an old comrade in the army of Metz, at Saint-Honore 
d’Eylau. He stopped at the Park Monceau with his 
123 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


wife, who accompanied him. And Andre begged his 
parents-in-law to stay. 

“No, no, old people with old people, the young with 
the young. ’ ’ 

“You never come,” said Andre. 

“I don’t wish to be a mother-in-law to you,” replied 
Madame de Jandrieu. 

4 4 Have I ever given you that name ? ’ ’ 

Cecile noticed that her husband was specially in- 
sistent in keeping General and Madame de Jandrieu, 
as if he felt the necessity of shunning a private con- 
versation with her. Yet he was neither preoccupied, 
nor dull. She even thought him too lively during 
the meal; his gayety seemed a little forced. He ap- 
peared to be racking his brain to talk, to speak of 
the novelties of the hour: the theater, the exhibitions. 

4 4 Are you preparing any new masterpieces for us, 
Andre?” inquired the general. 

4 4 Oh! masterpieces! No. But I have a sort of 
fever for work. The brush moves, moves, the color 
flames, the canvas smells sweet. And I am even going 
to leave you to work again. ’ ’ 

4 4 Go, go, my dear boy.” 

Andre kissed Cecile on the forehead and went back 
to his studio, leaving his wife with General and Ma- 
dame de Jandrieu, both delighted with their son-in- 
law’s cheerfulness. 


124 


THE MALADY RETURNS 

“What a charming fellow! You look like turtle 
doves ! ’ ’ 

“Very pretty, and in a delightful nest!” 

Yet the mother noticed a latent absence of mind in 
Cecile ’s glance. She asked her if she felt any anxiety. 
No. Only Andre was perhaps working too much. So 
nervous a temperament required rests. 

“But you are happy?” 

“Very happy.” 

“Really?” 

“Really, Mamma, I assure you.” 

She was in a hurry to be alone. She wanted to 
know the truth. Her parents had not reached the 
Park Monceau, when she went up to Andre’s studio, 
and knocked at the door. He was finishing his pic- 
ture of Italy, living over the hours she had lived with 
him there. 

“Ah! That is beautiful!” she said, looking at the 
canvas. “Yes, it is superb!” 

Cecile did not know how to question, to ask ex- 
planations, and Andre, absorbed in his work, ap- 
peared to wish to avoid any inquiry. Besides, she 
was afraid of wounding him, committing some piece 
of awkwardness that might irritate him, and soon said : 

“I am disturbing you. I will go.” 

He did not say a word to detain her. Well, she 
would wait. But the idea of the man standing be- 
125 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


fore the mirror and counting the bank bills did not 
leave her. 

They had intended to spend their evening at the 
opera. The performance was ‘ ‘ Samson and Delilah. ’ ’ 
Andre listened, telling Cecile how much the music 
stimulated him, his imagination summoning dream 
landscapes, while the orchestra lulled his visions. 

‘ ‘ A man needs a little smoke and an accompaniment 
to his thoughts, the smoke of a pipe, or the echo of 
old melodies. That is why I am so fond of having 
you at your piano. When you are playing, it seems 
as if you were dictating my sketches.” 

“Only I no longer play. I really believe girls 
marry especially so that they need not play the pieces 
which have been taught them.” 

Suddenly Cecile added: “Sunday, at Colonne’s, 
they are to give Schumann’s ‘Manfred.’ I do not 
know it. If you like, we will go and hear it. ’ ’ 

But she was startled by his convulsed face. 

“No, no, no,” he said, “not ‘Manfred.’ ” 

The sonorous tones of former days, the voices that 
had lacerated his nerves, suddenly returned to his 
memory. He changed the conversation, took his opera 
glasses, and surveyed the house. 

Cecile went home without having had the courage 
to ask what he had done the night before and, still 
anxious, fell asleep at a late hour. 

126 


THE MALADY RETURNS 


The next day Andre began work early. The happy 
fever under which his picture was growing, continued. 
When Cecile had finished dressing, she rang the bell 
and asked for the mail and the newspapers. The 
Boulevard was among them. She tore off the wrap- 
per and looked at the first page. 


X 


THE GAME OF CARDS 

In the * 4 Echoes of Paris” signed by Frederic 
Clement, a name instantly attracted her attention — 
Andre’s. She unfolded the sheet, reading eagerly, 
startled. 

The reporter was describing a scene that had taken 
place at the club, Rue Boissy-d’Anglas, the night 
before last. A young artist who usually never ap- 
peared at a gaming table had risked a wild game with 
Prince Stalinski, famous for his bold method of de- 
fying fortune. For hours, there had been a sort of 
duel of luck between the Parisian artist and the great 
Polish nobleman. At one time the prince, smiling, 
elegant, courteous, lost more than a hundred thou- 
sand francs. But the artist would not rise from the 
table until he had himself lost all his winnings. 

The prince, having won back two thousand five hun- 
dred louis, quitted the table himself, saying: 

“Let us stop there! It no longer interests me.” 

The artist, trying to induce him to continue the 
game, replied: 


128 


THE GAME OF CARDS 


“No, no; fifty thousand francs’ loss is exactly the 
figure I fixed for to-night !” 

The reporter, continuing the anecdote, added : 

“Much attention was attracted by the calmness of 
the two opponents, who both played automatically, 
as if their minds were elsewhere, the prince ironically 
indifferent, the artist quiet, with a look which did 
not even seem to see the pile of bank notes heaped 
upon the table. This tournament around the cards 
greatly interested the aficicionados 

And Clement concluded: 

“Is it necessary to name the conqueror ? More ac- 
customed to handle the brush than to meddle with 
cards, he had perhaps during the day signed one of 
those landscapes for which picture-dealers pay such 
high prices, but we doubt whether his afternoon 
brought him in as much as his evening. Monsieur 
Andre Fortis, like the Roman Emperor, can boast 
of not having wasted his day.” 

Cecile, after having read the article in the Boule- 
vard, went through it again. She was terrified. 
She was absolutely certain that Andre had played 
this game in that condition of unnatural dream- 
129 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


ing which robbed him of his own personality to substi- 
tute another's. The journalist had noticed this sig- 
nificant fact: Andre's glance did not even seem to 
see the sum won, the heaped-up bills. And the ex- 
pression of surprise of the man awakened, counting 
with amazement the bank notes he appeared to be 
questioning while handling! Andre's bewilderment 
in the presence of the money he had in his pocketbook, 
without knowing how it had come there ! The article 
explained everything. 

Andre had surely had an attack the other night at 
the club, another attack of the malady during which, 
though fleeting, without calculating the sum he had 
risked with Prince Stalinski, he had gambled, gambled 
like a madman, haphazard, winning, he did not know 
what, remaining at the table without knowing why, 
haggard, bewildered, as he must have been the next 
morning on finding in his own house his unexpected 
gain. 

So, for hours, far away from her, Andre had once 
more become that Other whom he feared. 

He was not cured ! For a year she had been able 
to hope that The Other had vanished, but Andre was 
not cured! He had gambled — perhaps he did not 
even remember having played. No, certainly, he did 
not remember it. She had only to recollect in what 
way he had held those notes in his fingers. 

130 


THE GAME OF CARDS 


He had gambled — he might become involved in a 
quarrel, threaten, kill — and he would not remember it ! 

Cecile read once more, shuddering with terror, the 
article in the Boulevard , which she spelled over as 
if learning it by heart: 

“Who both played automatically, as if their minds 
were elsewhere, the prince ironically indifferent, the 
artist quiet , with a look which did not even seem to 
see the pile of bank notes heaped upon the table — ” 

“Oh! no, he did not see! He saw nothing! He 
was outside of himself! It is terrifying! He might 
return to me with blood on his hands, and he would 
not know it ! He would be responsible for what The 
Other had done!” 

But, in truth, did he not know? Was it possible 
that this dream of a night — not this dream, but this 
reality, lived in the second state of his existence as if 
in a fog — could have left no trace upon Andre’s mind? 

Now that she knew whence these bank notes came ; 
now that the paper had related the adventure of the 
night, she would no longer hesitate to question him, 
and when Fortis came down from his studio, she 
really did so. 

“You don’t know it,” she said, “but I have a 
wish, a fancy. I have not many whims ; I have never 
asked you for anything. To-day I am going to do 
so.” 


131 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“What?” said Andre. 

He seemed delighted. It was his joy to render 
her happy. 

“But you will not want — ” 

“Why?” 

“ It ’s very expensive. Oh! It isn’t a pearl neck- 
lace ; mine will do. Formerly women asked their hus- 
bands for a coupe, a pair of horses. I belong to my 
age. I should like an automobile.” 

“An automobile?” 

“We must keep in the fashion.” 

“An automobile it is,” replied Andre; “but later, 
when I have delivered some more views of Venice to 
Telasco. I’ve no money at my disposal.” 

He had pronounced the last words in the most nat- 
ural manner in the world, and Cecile felt that he 
was really telling the truth. He certainly did not 
remember the adventure at the club ; he had forgotten 
Prince Stalinski. And this was precisely what re- 
vived in the distracted wife the full measure of' her 
suffering. 

If the memory of a fact which occurred a few hours 
before escaped Andre’s brain, it was because a gap 
had been made in it, because, for a brief period, he 
had again lived that other life, the life of which he 
now had no knowledge, but which was as real in its 
strangeness as his own, his daily existence. He was 
132 


THE GAME OF CARDS 


not cured. At any instant the amnesia, the suppres- 
sion of his personality, might attack him! 

At the risk of saddening this mind, Cecile went 
straight to the truth, tearing aside the veil, wishing 
to know. 

“But,” she said, gently, gazing into the depths of 
his eyes, not as a judge who is examining, but like 
a mother who smiles while putting a question — ‘ ‘ those 
bank bills; yes, the ones you brought home yester- 
day.” 

“Bank notes?” 

He began to laugh merrily. 

“What bank notes?” 

“You counted them standing in front of the man- 
telpiece, in your pocketbook with your monogram, 
the one I gave you.” 

“Bank notes?” 

Like a man who is trying to remember something, 
he fixed his eyes upon Cecile. An effort to think 
was going on in his mind. 

He repeated: 

“Bank notes?” 

“Yes, the ones you won from Prince Stalinski.” 

“What Prince Stalinski?” 

“At the club, the other evening.” 

“I?” he cried, striking himself violently on the 
chest. 


133 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


There was such apprehension, such sudden suffer- 
ing in the exclamation that Cecile was alarmed, re- 
gretting that she had made this attempt. 

“Come, come,” he said, collecting his ideas, his 
forehead contracted as if he were trying to solve a 
problem — “who has spoken to you of Prince Stalinski, 
of money won?” 

“At the gaming table, the other night. Look!” 
she said, holding out to him the paper trailing from 
the table, and Andre for an instant felt fierce anger 
while reading Frederic Clement’s article. 

“Is it possible?” he said, raising his hand to his 
forehead. He stammered like a man overwhelmed. 

“Yes, possible! — It is possible!” 

The Boulevard , which he was rereading, produced 
upon him the impression of a fragment of a cinemat- 
ograph in which he suddenly saw himself moving, 
going, coming, bent over a gaming table, throwing 
down cards, a hurrying, restless phantom, a phantom 
that was himself. 

With quivering lips, he repeated : 

“It is possible! Oh! yes, it is possible!” 

Then, angrily hurling aside the paper crumpled in 
his wrath, he exclaimed: 

“And you saw me counting the bank bills? Where 
are they?” 

“In the pocketbook,” Cecile repeated. He did not 
134 


THE GAME OF CARDS 


have this pocketbook. Where had he put it? He 
did not remember. Of what he had done, what he 
had said at the club, or on his return, when Cecile 
had seen him holding the bills in his fingers, he no 
longer had the least recollection. It was not He who 
had lived through those fevered hours, it was The 
Other. 

Then, uttering a cry of rage, he threw himself 
into an armchair, covered his face with his hands 
and, amid sobs, violently repeated the words: <( Tlie 
Other! The Other I” 

Sometimes he stared straight before him, his 
clenched fist seemed to threaten a vision in space. 
In his eyes shone the flame of murder. 

Cecile regretted having recalled this suffering, re- 
awakened this memory. 

“ Where is the pocketbook ?’ ’ asked Andre, sud- 
denly starting up. “How was this money won? 
I must find it — Prince Stalinski! I scarcely know 
him. I may perhaps have spoken to him twice in 
my life!” 

He held out his arms to Cecile as if to draw her 
to him, and when she came, he let his head fall on 
the young wife’s shoulder, embracing her, imploring 
her forgiveness, whispering in her ear, her neck, 
between two kisses, as if some witness were watching 
and listening: 

10 


135 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“Forgive me! Forgive me! You will forgive me, 
won’t you?” 

“Forgive you, for what?” 

“For having lied. For not having told you all. 
You, my darling, you! For having led you to marry 
a sick man, a madman, for aught I know?” 

Cecile soothed him, clasped him like a grieving 
child who comes weeping to be comforted. 

“Why no, why no, you are perfectly sane. You 
are right, you did well, I love you. With all my 
powers I love you, Andre! I worship you!” 

But he, amid moans of suffering, answered furiously : 

“Dr. Chardin lied to me. Dr. Chardin deceived 
me ! Oh ! science ! Their science ! They know noth- 
ing! They lie! They say to each other: ‘Let us 
always console the person who suffers! And then, 
too, he may be cured!’ He did console me, in fact, 
assured me that I was exactly like any other man. 
What another scientist had told me he repeated on 
the eve of our marriage. He was afraid that, being 
forced to lose you, giving you up, I should kill my- 
self — and so I would have done. He did not say 
what he ought to have told me: ‘It would be bet- 
ter to disappear!’ Certain human beings have no 
right to love, have no right to be happy. They have 
a defect. And there it is! And I have given you 
my name, and you have given me your life in all 
136 


THE GAME OF CARDS 


confidence! And we awake to this reality !” He 
glanced at the paper, kicking the copy of the Boule- 
vard aside with his foot. “I am incapable of know- 
ing what I did the other night, and I might have 
committed some dishonorable act, for which, though 
unconscious of it, I should be held responsible! It’s 
idiotic, absurd, shocking! Oh! my poor Cecile, how 
wretched I am!” 

Sobs rose in his throat ; he seemed like a little child. 
His wife tried to soothe him by caresses and the lov- 
ing words murmured softly to very young children, 
whom we want to lull to sleep. There are lullabies 
for sorrow too. Andre felt his despairing rage soften 
a little under these gentle words. Cecile strove to 
comfort him. She found deliciously soothing things 
to say. The Sister of Charity sleeping in every 
woman quickly became, in the sweetest and most ten- 
der words, a moral ambulance for the unfortunate man. 
The sufferer felt a cooling balm upon his wound. 

She spoke of hope. She did not talk like the 
physician, affirming that the will can do everything, 
that we are cured when we desire to be cured — she 
transformed into tears that were almost tranquil An- 
dre ’s tears of rage, while maddened at the idea that 
he was once more a prey to The Other . 

“But I must find those bills ,’ 9 he said, starting up. 
“I want to return them. They are not mine.” 

137 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 

“Return them? Did Prince Stalinski play with 
you, or with a phantom? He played with you. He 
lost to you. Give this money to the poor, if you 
wish. Lose it in another game with the prince. But 
you are not going to say that the man who was play- 
ing the other night was not you. What is your 
secret, Andre, our secret, my Andre, must remain 
between you and me. Allow nothing to be suspected. 
Let no one divine — and I will make a vow that we 
will drive away this person whom you call The Other, 
I promise, I promise, we will drive him away ! ’ ’ 

“Yes, true, there is exorcism!” exclaimed Andre 
abruptly, in a shrill voice. “In the twentieth cen- 
tury! A man possessed! It’s ridiculous!” 

Suddenly, still haunted by the thought, his brows 
contracted : 

“Where is this money? In the studio, I’m going 
there,” he added, tearing himself away from Cecile. 

She wished to follow. 

“No, I beg you, let me go! I need solitude — I 
need to relax my nerves, to weep.” 

“Weep with me, it will be a pleasure like any 
other, ’ ’ she said, trying to laugh. 

He was already on the staircase, rapidly ascending 
the steps, and, once alone, he tried to recall the past 
to his memory. 


XI 


THE MADMAN 

Andre had no remembrance of the game of cards, 
the pocketbook which Cecile had seen in his hands. 
There was a gap in his life. And this rift was of no 
distant date — only from yesterday. 

4 4 Come, come — I came in here — I must have put 
the money into some drawer.’ ’ 

He searched and rummaged among the closets and 
the pieces of furniture. His memory gave him no 
aid. Clement’s article might have been an invention 
from beginning to end, an invention that Andre 
would have found, as a reporter’s romance, perfectly 
natural. No circumstance to which he could attach 
a past sensation returned to his mind. There was 
a gap. 

In seeking the truth amid this obscurity, he felt 
fever gradually taking possession of him, the veins 
in his forehead throbbed, a sensation of vagueness 
overpowered him, as if objects had assumed fantastic 
aspects. It required an effort of will to maintain his 
calmness, to preserve his reason. 

139 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Then, suddenly, the money found in a portfolio 
where he usually kept his sketches, proved that the 
Boulevard reporter, inventing nothing, had stated 
a fact. 

He counted the bills : 

“Fifty-two thousand francs!” 

Of the manner in which he had won them, Andre 
knew nothing. It was a sort of somnambulist, not a 
conscious person, who had played with Prince Sta- 
linski. But in the presence of the absolute reality, 
the artist bowed, crushed by the evidence. For hours 
his usual life had been cut off. This human being of 
flesh and blood who was his Ego, had become the 
prey of The Other. It was The Other who had won 
the bank notes. 

“ The Other ! The Other!” 

Andre repeated the words aloud, looking around 
him as if he should have perceived the specter of his 
own person. 

He held the bills in his fingers, crumpling them, 
asking himself if they would not suddenly become 
dry leaves, like the money the demon in the legends 
gives to those from whom he buys their souls. 

“The Other’s money!” 

And this time, The Other might, in his mind, be 
his opponent, Prince Stalinski. 

It seemed as if he were holding this package of 
140 


THE MADMAN 


papers contrary to all law, that the sum was 
stolen. 

“Come, where does this prince live?” 

He searched in “All Paris” for the address. “Sta- 
bad — Stabard — StalinsJci ( Prince Ladislas) 70 Avenue 
des Champs Ely sees — ” 

“Good! I’ll go there! I shall know what im- 
pression he had of me the other night!” 

He put the bills into the pocketbook with his mono- 
gram, went downstairs again and asked for his hat 
and gloves. 

Cecile was waiting for him. 

“Are you going out?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where?” 

“To Prince Stalinski ’s. ” 

“Why?” 

“I want to know what I said, what I did. What 
Ee did, He, He, the one who is 1! Oh ! the hideous 
buffoonery of it all! No, no,” he added, as Cecile 
endeavored to calm him and to prevent his going 
out; “besides, the fresh air will do me good.” 

In fact, the walk really did drive away the sort 
of headache which contracted his forehead. He went 
on foot up the Champs Elysees, trying to forget, 
the eye of the landscape artist taking in with his 
gaze the long avenue of slender trees, like impres- 
141 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


sions of Japanese prints, which ended in the fog at 
the gap made by the Arc de Triomphe. In the pres- 
ence of nature the artist was regaining possession of 
himself. He reached Prince Stalinski’s house, al- 
most forgetting why he had come there. 

Stopping short, he abruptly asked himself a ques- 
tion which terrified him. 

“What am I to say to this man whom I scarcely 
know? He has played, he has lost. I can give him 
his revenge at the club. But why question him? 
Why, and about what ? If he tells me that he thought 
me odd the other night, shall I inform him that I 
was not responsible for my acts, and the man who 
won his money was — what? A madman! No, I’ll 
wait !” 

He did not go up to the Prince’s apartments. He 
would see him at the club. He began to walk, but 
this time aimlessly, quickening his pace, going toward 
the Bois, telling himself that the winter wind would 
quiet his nerves, and as he walked, returning as if 
urged by magnetism to the haunting thought: “He 
was not cured, not master of his acts and his thoughts, 
he was still the victim of this frightful psycho- 
neurosis. For hours, in the midst of the club at a 
gaming table, among the Parisians who were watching 
the cards, he had been able, an amazing automaton, 
to play, to talk, to question, to answer, without even 
142 


THE MADMAN 


the shadow of a memory of his remarks, his replies, 
his actions.” 

“It is fearful, that is all, it is fearful.” 

And now anger muttered, rising within him, anger 
directed against Dr. Chardin, who was guilty of not 
having told the truth, the physician who had de- 
ceived himself, who had deceived him. 

“If I must return to this torture, fall back into 
this malady, why didn’t he tell me that I must not, 
that I could not marry? He lied, he did not do his 
duty ! ’ ’ 

Ah! yes, doubtless — as the unfortunate man had 
cried out to Cecile — Dr. Chardin had feared the 
nervousness of this madman who spoke of loading a 
revolver, on leaving the office, and ending every- 
thing at once. Dr. Chardin had had pity. He had 
refused to sentence a man to death. He had had 
mercy. 

“Mercy on what? Mercy on an anguish which was 
a deliverance ? I should he dead ; it would be over ! ’ ’ 

Andre plunged into the avenues of the Bois, walk- 
ing rapidly, talking aloud, finding a charm in the 
deserted paths, the frozen atmosphere of a damp De- 
cember. 

It was one of those periods in winter when arthritis 
wrings like screws the limbs of rheumatic persons. 
This gray weather, this humid cold, falling from 
143 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


dead trees, where drops hung as if the branches had 
been weeping, this mournful season pleased the artist, 
eagerly craving solitude. 

He walked on and on, without knowing it, dwelling 
on his thoughts, impelled by them, and the keen con- 
sciousness of his powerlessness in the presence of the 
malady from which he was suffering, became more 
acute as he repeated the words: “He lied! The 
doctor lied!” • 

So, at every hour, at every turn, he was exposed 
to the appearance of this “double” who would expel 
him from his life. He would not belong to himself. 
He might smile at Cecile, and suddenly see a stranger 
start up between them ? All that he had hoped for — 
recovery, forgetfulness — was impossible. 

“111! I am a sick man! Ah! my father-in-law, 
with his dreams of success, his ambition for honors! 
The Institute! Poor General! Sainte-Anne will be 
your Institute, my little Andre Fortis ! Sainte- 
Anne!” 

He was growing excited in this rapid walk, which 
he desired to be fatiguing, as if he wished to con- 
quer the body — to drive away the haunting, painful 
thought, which gripped him more strongly at every 
step: the possibility of being separated from this 
woman who was his wife, who bore his name, who 
was proud of it, and whom, with all the force of his 
144 


THE MADMAN 


being, he worshiped as the ideal creature, the best 
and the most self-sacrificing. 

Lose her! To be thrown some day into a padded 
room and leave her, a widow without being a widow, 
the widow of a living dead man, to a hopeless future, 
or to another man who might perhaps love her! An 
unreasoning jealousy — jealousy of the future — tor- 
tured him. Well, rather than endure such an obses- 
sion, live under this agonizing threat, it would be 
better to end it at once. After all, is this really 
living ? 

He went straight forward, like a wanderer, going 
beyond the avenues of the Bois, keeping on and on, 
not realizing the distance traversed, and even fa- 
tigue did not assail him in this constant hastening. 
He resembled a machine — one of those iron ones 
whose wild speed intoxicates the person who guides 
it. He felt — walking aimlessly on — a sort of mad- 
ness of speed, the fever of the jockey who lashes his 
horse. And as he went, his excitement was taking a 
different form: the various objects, the houses, the 
trees, the landscapes steeped in fog, were transformed 
into unexpected shapes. He passed along suburban 
streets which were familiar to him, patches of under- 
growth which he had studied, and yet he found noth- 
ing that wore its usual appearance. The houses 
seemed to be staring curiously, with open eyes, at the 
145 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


passing stranger. The trees, blackened by the cold, 
stretched toward him gnarled limbs, menacing and 
hostile. Was it the haze, the approaching nightfall, 
the winter dusk — he did not know — but he had the 
vague sensation of being surrounded by darkness, 
enveloped by one of the dense, chill fogs through 
which he had sometimes passed in London. 

On and on he went — gradually losing even the 
consciousness of his own personality. Before his 
eyes darted those swift, zigzag flashes of light that 
had formerly preceded the strange attacks from which 
Dr. Burke, and afterward Dr. Chardin, had declared 
him freed. 

He now asked himself where he was, and what 
unknown town he was entering. An immensely wide 
avenue, with large trees forming somber masses on 
each side, was opening before him. Street cars were 
passing along it, sounding their signals. He had 
gone through an iron gate, dividing the avenue. Peo- 
ple in military caps had looked at him, and the uni- 
form of the customhouse officials had seemed as 
strange as that of foreign soldiers. At the end of the 
avenue, in the fog, the outlines of a huge palace 
blocked the view. 

Andre knew that palace well. He had seen it be- 
fore. Certainly he had seen it. 

What was this building, which grew larger and 
146 



“He beheld, as if they were new apparitions, the bronze Tritons in 
the empty basins.” 


MM 





THE MADMAN 

larger against the horizon at every step he took? 
Where was he? 

He examined the houses bordering the avenue. 
Some, structures of the former century, towered above 
high walls that lined the way. Immense edifices rose, 
formal in style, with huge doorways, and carved 
armorial bearings. All this was well known to An- 
dre. He recognized, too, yonder palace, appearing in 
a misty dream. It was Versailles. He was at Ver- 
sailles. 

What was he doing at Versailles? 

He aimlessly continued his way. Now he was cross- 
ing the great empty square, swept by the winter wind. 
Walking straight forward, he entered the park, be- 
held as if they were new apparitions, the avenues, the 
horizons, the bronze Tritons in the empty basins, the 
vast garden depopulated by the cold, and this soli- 
tude amazed him. He felt as if he were visiting a 
cemetery. The statues of demigods, heroes, goddesses, 
on their stone pedestals, appeared like images of the 
dead erected on tombs. And the cold wind, the 
December blast whistling through the leafless trees, 
added a note of lamentation to this majestic sad- 
ness. 

He was walking on, descending the green turf, 
when the feeling of hunger made him turn back, going 
instinctively toward the city. The famished beast 
147 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


suddenly awaked in this wanderer. He would find 
a restaurant and stop there. He entered the Keser- 
voirs by the door opening into the park, and sat down 
at a table in the great hall. 


XII 


AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 

The diners were sitting finishing their meals, chat- 
ting together — several Englishmen, a very fair young 
girl who bore a strange resemblance to Cecile, and 
the sight of whom brought to Andre Fortis’s mind 
the question: 

“ Where have I seen that face?” 

The new man he was becoming in this second state 
only vaguely remembered the woman who was his 
wife. 

However, he felt a sensation of comfort in stop- 
ping his ambulatory fever, in resting, and he ate with 
an excellent appetite, irritated only by the noise made 
by his neighbors, who were talking gayly as they 
dined. Their laughing seemed sarcastic. He won- 
dered if they were jeering at him. 

Why? He did not explain it to himself. But he 
would have liked to be alone, to see no one, to hear 
no sound. Some young men at the end of the room, 
who had just got out of their automobile, appeared 
to be casting sneering looks at him. A pretty young 
149 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


woman, of whom he could see only the nape of her 
neck and her black hair, turned toward him from 
time to time. And still that same question, that 
eternal question : Why? 

Did he look ridiculous? 

Andre felt a sort of constraint in knowing that 
people were glancing at him and was stirred by an 
impulse to go straight up to these strangers and ask 
them the question. Lines formerly heard, came back 
to his mind: 

“ Zounds, gentlemen, I had no idea of being 
As amusing as I am! . . .” 

Then his thoughts drifted toward memories of the 
theater which these words recalled and, for a mo- 
ment, he forgot the eyes fixed upon him, the irony 
he imagined he had just seen. He felt an impression 
of relief, as if he had reached a pleasant halting 
place. In a sort of strange wave reality seemed to 
him enveloped in fog, but this fog had the charm 
of the light mists which look like thin smoke, a silver 
gauze. 

He no longer troubled himself about his neighbors. 
Or rather he no longer troubled himself about any- 
thing. Without exactly knowing why he was there, 
in the agreeable warmth of the restaurant, he gave 
himself up to the feeling of comfort. 

150 


AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 

The meal over, Andre called for his bill, rose 
and went out, the waiter having put on his cloak. 
He left without yet knowing where he was going, 
and remained a moment standing on the threshold 
of the door, gazing at the broad, almost deserted 
streets. 

While there an automobile entering the Reservoirs 
brushed against him and, from the vehicle, he heard 
a harsh voice suddenly shout: 

1 4 Take care, you fool ! ’ ’ 

Instinctively he stepped back, pressing against the 
wall. A heavy red auto passed close to his feet, 
almost crushing them. Andre felt the irresistible 
wrath of the pedestrian who is threatened by a dan- 
ger that apparently offers violence and insult. 

The voice from the automobile seemed to him a 
brutal order, and he rebelled as if he had endured 
some personal affront. 

He hastily walked several steps to the inner court- 
yard, where the motor car was stopping. A kind of 
Esquimau, clad in the skins of animals, descended, 
holding out his hand to a bundle of furs that looked 
like a shaggy bag, but which was a woman, probably 
a pretty one. The Esquimau had not removed the 
immense blue goggles which converted his face into a 
Neapolitan Punchinello mask, adapted to the Amer- 
ican fashion. 

11 


151 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“You might be more civil/ ’ said Andre, advancing 
toward the society Samoyede. 

The two living bundles of fur changed nod3 
which meant: “Where did this man come from?” 
and from beneath the mask and goggles issued a 
voice : 

“What did you say, sir?” 

“I say that you nearly ran over me just now, 
and your only apology was to speak to me like a 
lout.” 

The automobilist snatched away with his fur gloves 
the goggles that concealed his face, and a young man’s 
countenance appeared under the skin cap, dusty fair 
mustaches beneath a well-formed nose, and very 
blue eyes under eyebrows gray with dust. 

“I am not in the habit of being addressed in this 
way, sir,” said the traveler. “I called to you in 
passing a warning addressed to a half-seen obstacle; 
but you are putting an evident meaning into your 
words, and you must take back what you have just 
said.” 

The woman muffled in her cloak, her head in a sort 
of gray hood, laid her hand, weighted with fur, on 
the shoulder broadened by the wolf-skin, and repeated 
imploringly : 

“Henri! Henri!” 

“I will take back nothing,” retorted Andre, look- 
152 


AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 


ing the young man in the eyes. “ Speed does not 
exclude courtesy.” 

“Sir!” 

The arm, shaggy as a bear’s paw, rose in an impul- 
sive gesture, threatening Andre. But the artist, in 
his turn, repulsing with the same swift, instinctive 
movement the uplifted arm, brushed with his fingers 
the stranger’s cheek, and the tourist, like a wounded 
animal under his bristling covering of furs, would 
have leaped upon him, if the young woman, terrified, 
had not stopped him by repeating the same cry, the 
same name: 

“Henri! Henri!” 

Besides, the noise had attracted the waiters. The 
chauffeur, in a goat-skin coat, ran up, there was a 
sudden silence, and the automobilist who had turned 
very pale, said, rummaging in his overcoat: 

“I hope that we shall not stop here, sir!” 

And, looking in his pocketbook, he handed Andre 
a card. 

The artist did not even glance at it. He, too, gave 
his card, and bowing to the young woman who had 
shrunk against her traveling companion, said with 
a nervous gesture : 

1 < Pardon me, Madame. ’ ’ 

Then he went away, walking straight forward, with- 
out knowing where. 


153 


XIII 


AFTER THE ATTACK 

Andre Fortis found himself again — awoke would 
be the better term — on a wooden bench, in the chill 
dreariness of the station where a few travelers, who 
looked like shadows under the gaslight, came asking 
for tickets to Paris. He had arrived there an hour 
before, impelled by instinct, mechanically, and after 
being told that he had nearly forty minutes to wait, 
he had tried to kill time by looking in the dusk at 
the old polychromous posters of last summer’s water- 
ing places, dull as vanished joys, and then sat down 
on the bench. Exhausted by fatigue, in spite of the 
meal which had just refreshed him, an invincible 
torpor stole over him, and falling asleep, he dreamed 
of some monstrous beast, some colossal cave bear 
stretching its claws toward him from huge shaggy 
paws. 

There he had remained, drawing his garments over 
his knees, instinctively seeking the corner of the 
wall to sleep in peace. Heedless of the noise, the 
cold, perhaps rather lulled by the sound of footsteps, 
154 


AFTER THE ATTACK 


the distant rolling of cars and carriages, he had 
remained in this restorative condition, which had 
passed into heavy slumber, until the moment when a 
sensation of sharper cold, an impression bordering 
upon pain aroused him — and his bewilderment was 
extreme upon finding himself in this station, without 
even suspecting how he had come there. 

“Why, why, how did I get here? What has hap- 
pened to me?” 

He resembled a drunken man whose intoxication 
was dispelled, a sleeper awakened from a nightmare. 
He had gone to sleep in the second state which made 
him a different person: he awoke in the fullness of 
his own personality. The attack over, the dream was 
effaced. It was Andre, Andre Fortis who now had 
a clear perception of place, men, and things, of the 
setting in which his Ego moved. 

And, by this very fact, he had realized that there 
had been a gap in his existence — that he had not 
come by his own will into this station, that it was 
not he, but The Other, who had arrived there. 

How long had he been here? When did the ter- 
rible attack seize upon him? He remembered noth- 
ing. There was in his brain no image, however 
vague or fleeting, of what had occurred at the Reser- 
voirs or elsewhere. His memory held no trace of 
the crossing of the Bois which had led him to Ver- 
155 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


sailles. He awoke at night, in an unknown station, 
shivering with cold, his feet like ice, and his head 
aching — this was the sole perception he had of ex- 
ternal life. 

He recollected only that he had left the Rue Murillo 
to seek Prince Stalinski. Yes, but afterward? Aft- 
erward there was again a void in his life, and what- 
ever had occurred — for days or hours he did not 
know — escaped him as if it had taken place in the 
existence of another person. 

Then terrible, despairing grief shook his whole be- 
ing. He had hoped for deliverance ! He had 
believed that he could regain control over himself, 
escape the grip of neurosis. And so rapidly, at in- 
tervals so brief, the malady was returning, a jeer- 
ing demon, to bury its talons in this troubled brain! 

Andre stifled — in the presence of these people who 
might hear it — the sob that swelled his breast. He 
had only one idea: to regain his home, to find Cecile 
who, if he had been wandering days and days, must 
be waiting for him in despair. 

But in the first place he must know where he was. 
He recognized this country station, the wooden stair- 
case leading to the waiting rooms. He took a few 
steps outside, looking at the monument of common- 
place style with the clock in the middle, luminous as 
the eye in the forehead of the Cyclops of whom Dr. 

156 


AFTER THE ATTACK 


Chardin was talking the other evening at Madame 
de Vemiere’s. 

It was the Versailles station. He had come to 
Versailles without even suspecting it. The time 
spent upon the wooden bench it was impossible for 
him to estimate. Only in Paris, from poor Cecile, 
could he learn how long it was since he had left the 
house in the Rue Murillo. 

As for him, he knew nothing. A brutal interrup- 
tion of his normal life, a substitution of a second 
existence for his customary one. 

4 4 Oh ! wretch ! wretch ! is this living ? ’ ’ 

The train was about to start. He asked for a ticket 
to Paris. For a moment he was afraid he had no 
money with him. What would have become of him, 
if he had found himself penniless in this place where, 
like a tramp, he might have knocked at the door of 
some friend, some artist of his acquaintance — or, if 
he had not dared — he would have resumed on foot, 
with weary limbs, exhausted by fatigue, in the chill 
night, the road to Paris. 

He felt in the carriage a haste to arrive, to learn 
the truth more quickly. The winter horizons, bathed 
in the clear, cold moonlight, rested his artist eyes. 
Viroflay, Chaville, Ville d’Avray, his familiar spots, 
passed illumined by a spectral light, with the red 
windows of the houses that pierced the horizon. It 
157 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


was not very late: nine o’clock. At ten, he would 
be at home, reassuring Cecile, who must be anxious. 
And, on reaching the Saint-Lazare station, he jumped 
into a cab to arrive more quickly. 

The janitor told him that Madame was in the 
studio and, as he was tired, in spite of the rest in 
the car from Versailles to Paris, he took the elevator 
which went up to it. Opening the door, he lighted 
the electricity, and, wearied, he let himself drop on 
the yellow leather cushion. 

“It isn’t very high, but I will rest!” 

The elevator rose slowly, and on the glazed door 
shadows danced during the ascent. On reaching the 
second story, Andre heard a door open, two figures, 
a man’s and a woman’s, were suddenly outlined upon 
the ground glass, and he heard Cecile ’s voice ex- 
pressing thanks to someone. So she was not in the 
studio, as the janitor had said! 

The two figures disappeared, sunk as if down a 
trap-door as the elevator continued to rise, and Andre 
still heard, though fainter and weaker, Cecile ’s voice. 
He went quickly out, sent the elevator down by 
pressing the electric button, and leaned over the 
railing of the stairs. Cecile, on the floor below, was 
again bowing to a thin, odd-looking little man, 
with very long white hair, who was descending, hat 
in hand. 


158 


AFTER THE ATTACK 


Andre did not know the visitor. Some stranger. 
A picture dealer. Perhaps a customer! 

He went down in his turn and joined Cecile, who 
seemed astonished. 

Where had he been? she asked. She had waited. 
All through a long day, a whole evening, wondering 
if any accident had happened. Accidents sometimes 
come very suddenly in life. Andre explained that 
he had gone to Versailles — but without daring to 
speak of the new blank in his memory from which 
he had suffered, and of which, this time, he felt 
ashamed. 

Then, in his turn, he asked : 

* ‘ Who was that little old gentleman whom you were 
showing out and thanking ?” 

“That wasn’t an old man. His white hair does 
not belong to his age. It was Dr. Klipper.” 

The name suddenly recalled to Andre’s mind the 
conversation which had disturbed him at Madame 
de Verniere’s, and he looked at Cecile in astonish- 
ment. 

“Dr. Klipper, here?” 

“Yes, I wanted to consult him. I had not been able 
to succeed in forcing the door of his laboratory. I 
wrote to him, and he came to apologize.” 

“Consult Dr. Klipper? For yourself?” 

“No,” she said, “for someone else.” 

159 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Andre tried to laugh. But this name, Klipper, 
caused an uncomfortable sensation as if it might 
have awakened former suffering. 

“And you told me nothing about it? You have 
secrets from me.” 

“I first wanted to know whether we could apply 
to this scientist, and Dr. Chardin offered to take us 
himself to Dr. Klipper. It was Dr. Chardin who 
gave me a letter of introduction to his brother physi- 
cian .’ 7 

“And I learn this only by chance, by overhearing 
a conversation through the glass door of an elevator 
— a regular vaudeville situation,” he said, “or a 
drama. A husband returns and sees two Chinese 
shadows come out of his apartment. He springs out 
and kills. Or he gets a divorce. Othello in an ele- 
vator ! 9 9 

He clasped Cecile’s hands, touched by learning 
that she was thinking thus of him, but also anxious 
because she was uneasy. Well! since she had called 
Dr. Klipper, he would go with Chardin to consult 
him. Besides, he was curious to see this genius. 

* ‘ If only I had come a little sooner ! 9 9 

But he felt the necessity of no longer thinking of 
this haunting dread which Klipper seemed to in- 
carnate. He even avoided answering the questions 
of Cecile, who was surprised to see him so weary, 
160 


AFTER THE ATTACK 


his clothes dusty, his shoes gray, gray with all the 
dust of some long road. 

“Have you walked a great deal?” 

“A great deal. The air has done me good.” 

He avoided any explanation, having the tragical im- 
pression that he could account for nothing. He felt 
the need of spending under the lamplight, with 
Cecile, one of those evenings of soothing conversa- 
tion in which, even while silent, people who love 
each other find supreme delight in being alone 
together. 

“Are you hungry?” 

Andre was not hungry. He would take some tea, 
if Cecile would have some, and there, together, she 
forgetting the day of anxious waiting she had just 
passed, he driving obstinately away every thought 
that led him back toward that cold waiting room at 
Versailles, they remained until a late hour of the 
night, happy in this solitude, amid the great noc- 
turnal silence of sleeping Paris. 

“To remain thus,” said Andre, “to seclude our- 
selves every evening, after working all day, would 
be happiness!” 

“It is happiness,” answered Cecile, as if to recall 
the artist’s restless mind to the reality of this halting 
place. 

But, by a singular phenomenon of forgetfulness, 
161 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Andre was experiencing no anxiety. His whole ex- 
istence seemed to him to be contained in the present 
moment. He concentrated in the soft enjoyment of 
an unexpected repose all the delight of tasting the 
exquisiteness of an impression snatched, stolen from 
his phantoms. The tea, whose steam ascended like 
a breath, the pretty thoughtful face, the mild blue 
eyes, so tender beneath the light cast by the large 
shade, this interrupted conversation, these very si- 
lences with the exchange of long, loving looks, seemed 
to him the life he had always lived. There was only 
this in the world. The rest disappeared, was effaced. 
A mist lighter than that resting on the trees in the 
Park Monceau, half-seen in the clear night, beneath 
the pale sky. Visions more fugitive than the steam 
issuing like vapor from the China cups. Nothing was 
real except this repose, this quiet evening in the 
familiar drawing-room, far from everything, beside 
the woman he loved. 

“And you know,” said the artist, “that I make 
my finest pictures as I am doing this evening, with- 
out touching a brush, while talking with you, dream- 
ing by your side? Ah! the lovely visions, the fair 
landscapes, while gazing at you, placing you in my 
thoughts, in the midst of these imaginary canvases 
which I shall never make, perhaps, but which are 
much better than all that I have done!” 

162 


AFTER THE ATTACK 


“But which the dealers would not want!” replied 
Cecile laughing. 

“ Oh ! yes, they would want them, if they saw them 
as I do — that’s the way with us all. We dream our 
best works. ‘My finest pictures/ said Jules Dupre, 
‘I made for myself alone, sitting in my chimney cor- 
ner, smoking my pipe/ I would gladly do the same 
while gazing at you, and looking at the steam from 
the tea-pot! Ah! how comfortable we are! I won’t 
say that we are happy ! That isn’t wise — it brings ill- 
luck. But this sweet and pleasant evening! It is 
only such moments in life that count.” 

And after having fallen asleep with this feeling of 
exquisite quietude, Andre awoke the next morning 
with a zeal for work, a confidence and cheerfulness 
that restored Cecile ’s serenity, and reminded her of 
Dr. Flipper’s words: “Let your husband believe 
himself cured, and he will be cured.” 

“I am going to get through a great deal of work, 
to-day, my darling,” said the artist. 

“Real pictures? Not the ones people make while 
smoking their pipes and watching the tea steam ? ’ ’ 

“Naughty girl!” 

He pressed a long kiss upon her eyes, as he used 
to do when they were engaged, and went up to his 
studio, alert, happy to live. 

Ah! the joy of labor, the pleasure of setting his 
163 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


palette, displaying his colors — to the artist, to feel 
the oil diluting the paste in the tubes, to the writer, 
to watch the ink flow from the pen upon the smooth 
paper, like blood from a vein. Andre experienced 
this joy in the fever of delight which the artist an- 
ticipates when, ardent and resolute, he has before 
him a day of work, good, free, alluring work. 

He had placed upon his easel a picture which 
evoked, in a sort of apotheosis of sunset, the fallen 
Campanile, the Campanile of Venice, which will no 
longer be seen by the ships coming in from the sea. 

He had seated himself on his stool, delighted to 
have long hours of solitude, in the activity with no 
touch of fever, of joyous work, when little successive 
raps, struck on his door, roused him from these first 
moments of active toil. 


XIV 


TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS 

He knew this sort of warning which Aurele, his 
servant, had orders to use only on special occasions, 
when there was an important inquiry or some urgent 
news. 

“Come in,” he called, annoyed, foreseeing one of 
the inevitable visits which cut short inspiration and 
carry the mind far away from the cherished idea. 

The man apologized, well knowing that Fortis’s first 
impulse in such cases was a sort of nervous rough- 
ness. 

“What is it, Aurele?” 

“Two gentlemen want to see you, sir,” replied the 
servant. 

“Two gentlemen?” 

‘ ‘ I told them that you were not receiving ; that you 
had gone out. They insisted, saying that they would 
come back again, and that it was absolutely neces- 
sary that you should tell them at what hour they 
could see you. They said: ‘You will take him our 
cards/ Here they are.” 


165 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Aurele presented a tray containing two cards, which 
Fortis looked at while the servant added : 

“ Oh ! they said, too : ‘Inform Monsieur Fortis that 
we come from Monsieur de Morliere. ’ I thought it 
would be better to let you know, sir — ” 

Andre looked at the cards, repeated the name, Mon- 
sieur de Morliere, and again reading the other names 
engraved on the bits of pasteboard: Comte de Lar- 
tiges and Major Vignal of the General Staff, wondered 
what could be the meaning of this double visit from 
strangers coming from a third person. 

“You are sure that these gentlemen really asked for 
Monsieur Fortis ? ’ ’ 

“Oh! yes, sir; perfectly sure,” replied Aurele. 
“One of them, the taller, even said: ‘He must be in 
his studio/ A proof that they know very well that 
you are an artist/ ’ 

“Monsieur de Morliere. What Monsieur de Mor- 
liere ?” said Andre Fortis aloud. 

“Shall they come up, sir?” 

“Show them up.” 

“Two men who come from a third,” thought An- 
dre; “they would not come in this way except for a 
duel. But, after all, two may also come to see pic- 
tures of which a third art lover has spoken. ’ ’ 

He was in haste to learn the matter in question and, 
laying the palette on the stool, he gazed a little sadly 
166 


TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS 


at the flaming sunset from which the unexpected visit 
snatched him. 

Aurele again appeared on the threshold, ushering 
in two very fashionably dressed men, who bowed to 
Andre in the correct manner, though somewhat for- 
mally. 

This was no visit of art lovers for the purpose of 
inspecting pictures. 

“We have the honor of speaking to Monsieur An- 
dre Fortis ? ’ * asked one. 

“Yes, sir.” 

He signed to them to sit down, drew forward an 
armchair for himself and, fixing his gaze upon them, 
rapidly studying them, waited. 

One — the one who had spoken — was a man about 
fifty, bald, with mustaches that were still fair, a 
stiff neck, a blue cravat, and a slender waist, closely 
buttoned in a frock-coat of the latest fashion. He 
thrust his polished gaitered shoes forward while speak- 
ing, as if to show his feet, which were very small. An 
elegant type of the club man, the gentleman-sports- 
man. 

The other, spare, gaunt, with a Don Quixote profile, 
and a mustache in the Russian style, was still young ; 
doubtless a cavalry officer. 

“Sir,” he said, emphasizing his words, clipping 
them between his teeth, as if by a coquetry of diction, 
12 167 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“the name of our friend explains distinctly enough 
the object of our visit.’ ’ 

1 1 The name of your friend ? ’ ’ asked Andre, slightly 
surprised. 

“Monsieur de Morliere has requested us to demand 
explanations, or rather, since it is necessary to speak 
plainly, apologies for the quarrel which took place be- 
tween you and him yesterday, at Versailles.” 

Andre listened, searching each word, like a man 
who was endeavoring to understand every syllable of a 
foreign tongue. 

He found himself suddenly confronted by a reality 
which started up like some unexpected vision ab- 
ruptly materialized. Of what, of whom had they 
come to talk with him? Who was this Monsieur de 
Morliere, and to what quarrel was this visitor allud- 
ing? 

These two strangers were the seconds of some un- 
known adversary, whose existence he did not even sus- 
pect. 

“Come, come,” he said to himself, “let us summon 
all our coolness ; let us keep our commonsense. ’ ’ 

What he desired, knowing nothing of the matter for 
which these men came to call him to account, was to 
learn the cause of this arrival of seconds, without let- 
ting Monsieur de Morliere ’s representatives perceive 
that he was ignorant, absolutely ignorant of every- 
168 





“ These two strangers were the seconds of some unknown adversary.” 




TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS 


thing which constituted the object of their mission. 

And it was like a sort of fencing in which Andre, 
without exposing himself, conquering himself by a ter- 
rible effort of will in order not to let them discover 
his amazement — his incredible ignorance of a fact in 
which evidently, certainly, he had been an actor with- 
out knowing it — trying to learn by bits a secret for 
which he was responsible without being aware of it. 

“ A quarrel with Monsieur de Morliere ! I have not 
the honor of Monsieur de Morliere ’s acquaintance, ’ 1 
he said coldly. 

“We know perfectly well that you are not ac- 
quainted with Monsieur de Morliere — any more than 
he knew you yesterday. Personally, at least,” said 
Comte de Lartiges, “for our principal was not igno- 
rant of the name of a famous artist. But, though the 
offense may not have been directed voluntarily against 
the Vicomte de Morliere, it is none the less an offense, 
and, in a lady’s presence, it assumes a sharper char- 
acter, for which our friend, I repeat, requires satis- 
faction.” 

“I am ready to give Monsieur de Morliere any sat- 
isfaction he may desire,” said Andre, conquering his 
agitation, “provided he will tell me in what way I 
have offended him!” 

The major, who had not opened his lips, inter- 
rupted with a touch of rudeness : 

169 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“What, sir, because an automobile brushes past you 
rather closely and you don ’t get out of the way quickly 
enough, someone shouts — rather sharply perhaps, too 
sharply, if you choose — a call, an epithet that dis- 
pleases you, and you reply with a gesture, almost 
grazing the cheek of a man whom you do not know, 
who has, it may be granted — to put things at the 
worst — nearly run over you, but whom you grossly 
insult, and you ask in what way you have offended 
Monsieur de Morliere ! ’ 9 

Andre Fortis’s eyes never left those of Major Vig- 
nal. He was trying to read in them what the soldier 
did not say, the complement of that scene of whose 
full details he was ignorant, and which was being 
revealed to him as if it had been enacted by another. 

That eternal thought, The Other, The Other , was 
returning to his mind. The Other who had con- 
tracted the debt which these men came to ask him to 
discharge. 

That terrible gap in his life yawned wide, full of 
mystery. 

“Are you certain/ ’ he said slowly, conquering him- 
self by a powerful effort, keeping down his throbbing 
heart, trembling lest he should appear terrified when 
he was thunderstruck and, as it were, dazed — ‘ ‘ are you 
very certain that I made, really made this gesture, 
impulsive in any case?” 


170 


TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS 


“The employes of the Hotel des Reservoirs wit- 
nessed it, ’ ’ said Comte de Lartiges. 

“And we are astonished that you should seek delay 
in this manner / 9 added the major. 

Andre, resolved from this moment to screen the cul- 
prit, in order not to betray himself by an avowal which 
which he would have considered a disgrace, answered 
curtly : 

“Pardon me, I am seeking no evasion — I am asking 
exactly what took place between Monsieur de Morliere 
and myself. That is all .’ 1 

Monsieur de Morliere ’s seconds looked at each other 
in some little surprise. 

“Well,” said Major Vignal, “though I have already 
specified, I will state the facts still more fully : 

“Yesterday at quarter of seven, in the Rue des Res- 
ervoirs, Monsieur de Morliere, returning in an auto 
from a ride with Madame de Morliere, shouted to you : 
‘ Take care, you fool V You went toward him when he 
got out of his machine ; remarks were exchanged ; you 
raised your hand against him, and you took the card 
he handed you, giving him yours in return. ’ ’ 

Andre was thinking : “I did not find that card. It 
must be still in my clothes. ’ ’ 

Comte de Lartiges held out to Andre Fortis the bit 
of pasteboard bearing the artist’s address. 

“This is certainly your card, sir?” 

171 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“Certainly.” 

“Andre Fortis, Rue Murillo.” 

“That is my card, my name, and my address.” 

“Then, sir, we have only to return to the object of 
our visit : Monsieur de Morliere demands, as we have 
had the honor of telling you, either formal apologies 
or satisfaction by weapons.” 

Andre smiled. He was beginning to find this trag- 
ical situation ironically comical; a human being be- 
coming responsible for certain acts of which he was 
not even conscious. 

“To fight for another person!” he thought. 

This idea was passing through his brain while an- 
swering these two men, seated in his studio, requiring 
either apologies or a meeting : 

“After all, this is war! The poor men fight for 
others and for the faults of others. ' ' 

“Gentlemen,” he said, “if I have, by an impulsive 
gesture, insulted Monsieur de Morliere, whom, I re- 
peat, I do not know, I will express to you my sincere 
regret. But do you think I owe the apologies which 
you demand, you will admit, in a somewhat imperative 
tone?” 

“Our principal's tone,” replied the major, “is on a 
par with your gesture.” 

“Regret would not suffice,” said Comte de Lar- 
tiges, as if regretting it himself. 

172 


TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS 


“And these apologies would consist — f ” 

The major completed Andre Fortis’s question. 

“In a letter in which the apologies required — ” 

“Or requested,” said the Comte. 

“Would be clearly and formally expressed.” 

Andre had vainly placed, in a certain way — as a 
shield — his own person before a sort of specter. He 
said to himself wrathfully that the apologies made 
should be by that Fortis, whose card Comte de Lar- 
tiges was still holding in his hand, and the bare idea 
of signing his name to such a letter made the blood 
mount to his brow, as if in a fever of wrath. 

“No, gentlemen,” he said, “I repeat that I am 
deeply grieved over what has happened. A reflex 
movement, and nothing more. But it is impossible for 
me to write the letter you require or request — the ex- 
pression matters little. I can deplore the fact, I can 
declare that the gesture was, as it were, mechanical, 
without having obeyed my will. I can neither do nor 
say more.” 

“Sir,” replied Comte de Lartiges coldly, “when 
we lose control of ourselves as you have done, we pay 
the debt of our impatience or our unconsciousness.” 

Without knowing it, he uttered the word which was 
the key of the situation. 

The conscious man was paying the penalty for the 
unconscious one. 


173 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“A debt to pay?” said Andre Fortis. “Well, sir, 
that is what I am going to do ! ” 

“By apologizing?” 

“By placing myself at Monsieur de Morliere’s dis- 
posal. ’ ’ 

“We shall have the honor of expecting your 
friends!” said Comte de Lartiges, bowing. 

“Our compliments, sir!” 

They went out with the same official correctness of 
deportment, the same bows which had marked their 
entrance ; and Fortis, a little dazed by the adventure, 
found himself alone confronting this singular situa- 
tion, which he was forced to endure without having 
created it. 

There could be no question of any explanation or 
attenuation whatever with the seconds he intended to 
choose. He would have blushed to confess that, in 
certain hours of his life, he suddenly became irre- 
sponsible. No. He would admit the insult offered 
to Monsieur de Morliere and he would fight to make 
amends for it. Only he wanted to end the affair 
quickly, very quickly, fearing that the nervousness 
caused by this absurd chance might bring on another 
attack. 

Suppose, for instance, that just at the moment of 
going on the ground, The Other should reappear, 
should again take possession of his being? What if 
174 


TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS 


this Other, who had no consciousness of his acts, 
should draw back from his own responsibility ? What 
if The Other should not go to the meeting accepted by 
him, Fortis? 

It was because this incredible complication was pos- 
sible, that Andre, brave to recklessness, dreaded lest 
another who might not possess his courage should take 
his place. He did not know this automaton who, at 
certain moments, became his double, his living, very 
much alive phantom.” 

“Come, come/’ he said to himself, “don’t think of 
that. I feel that I am master of myself. Haste is 
necessary, that is all, and no one must have the least 
idea of this anxiety.” 

He would not even say anything about it to Cecile. 
Why disturb her? If he were wounded, she would 
learn the truth soon enough. He asked two friends at 
the club, an artist as famous for his skill in fencing 
as for his forceful, decorative portraits, and a cap- 
tain detailed for duty at the Admiralty office, to make 
arrangements with Comte de Lartiges and Major Vig- 
nal for a meeting. 

Monsieur de Morliere being the offended party, 
chose pistols. Andre Fortis would have preferred the 
sword. They were to fight with pistols. 

Andre, up at daybreak, had spent the morning in 
writing to Cecile his last wishes, which were afterward 

175 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


sealed and put into a drawer of a little Hispano- 
Moorish cabinet. Then, with a mind perfectly free, 
driving away by a violent effort of the will the haunt- 
ing thought of a possible and sudden interruption of 
his normal life, he took an automobile with Petrus 
Hardy, the captain, and Dr. Wyns, the surgeon who 
was to be present at the duel. 

On the way, in spite of the noise of the machine, 
they had talked together. Dr. Klipper ’s name had 
chanced to be mentioned in the conversation. 

“Ah! yes, a madman,” said Wyns. “But a mad- 
man of genius. He is one of the persons who oscillate 
between the Pantheon and the padded cell, and who 
are capable of working miracles.” 

Then Fortis saw again, in his mind, the outline of 
Klipper descending the staircase in his apartment 
house. Cecile must have spoken to him. If the duel 
was not fatal (everything happens, alas! and the bul- 
let is more wild than man) he would consult Klipper; 
he would ask the madman the remedy for this kind of 
madness. 

Monsieur de Morliere and his seconds had already 
arrived at la Sablonniere de Viroflay, the meeting 
place fixed the night before. Andre, descending from 
the automobile, saluted his opponent, and turning up 
the collar of his overcoat, took his station at the spot 
indicated, Petrus Hardy having measured the dis- 
176 


TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS 


tance, and Major Vignal being appointed to give the 
signal for the duel by clapping his hands. 

Monsieur de Morliere fired first. Andre, with a 
little emotion, heard a slight, sharp sound, like the 
report of a child’s toy, in the damp air of the Decem- 
ber morning. Then, having to return the fire, he 
raised the barrel of his pistol in the air and pulled 
the trigger. 

The report must state, according to form, that two 
bullets had been exchanged without result. But, 
with charming courtesy, Monsieur de Morliere ad- 
vanced to Andre, who politely took his extended 
hand. 

“I now have the right, sir,” he said, ‘ ‘to express 
my regret for a movement for which, it seems to me, 
I am not responsible, and I beg you to believe in my 
sincerity.” 

“I should have been deeply grieved, sir,” replied 
Monsieur de Morliere, “to wound a man whose talent 
I admire, and I hope we shall see each other again in 
some other place than the Reservoirs, or la Sablon- 
niere!” 

They bowed to each other. The naval captain re- 
marked that on the very spot where, thank Heaven, 
the meeting had just ended with shaking of hands, a 
student had been killed by his friend one autumn 
morning. 


177 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“ There, by a pistol bullet. I saw the place still 
marked on the sand. ’ ’ 

“And why did he fight ?” 

“Why does anybody fight? Why was this duel 
with Monsieur de Morliere? For nothing.” 

Andre returned to Paris very happy. He seemed 
to have one veil less before his eyes. Not that this 
duel had made him uneasy. What must happen would 
happen. He was a bit of a fatalist. But the pain of 
telling himself that it was really He and not an 
Other who must go to this meeting was at last dis- 
pelled. He had even been able to prove to himself 
that his coolness had not deserted him a single in- 
stant. 

He had asked Dr. Wyns : 

“Feel my pulse.” 

And in a low tone : 

“Does it beat faster?” 

“No — it is very quiet.” 

And his brain also maintained the most complete 
clearness. During the time that Monsieur de Mor- 
liere was leveling his pistol at him, he had noticed 
the effect of a black outline of the human figure on a. 
winter landscape. The artist only, in that moment of 
danger, was interested in what was passing around 
him, the man had not had a moment’s faltering. 

Yes, one moment. In thought he had seen Cecile — • 
178 


TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS 


Ceeile all alone in the house on the Rue Murillo, wait- 
ing for him without knowing that, at this very hour, he 
was risking his life. And if his antagonist’s ball had 
struck him, he would have fallen while sending a last 
farewell to the woman he worshipped. 

He embraced his wife with an almost sorrowful 
overflow of tenderness when he saw her again and she, 
divining that some new trouble had entered his life, 
questioned him, wished to know it, smiled, entreated. 

“What is there new? You are hiding something 
from me.” 

“No. Nothing. Later .’ 9 

Taking the fair head between his hands, he covered 
her face with kisses, repeated the eternal words : “I 
love, I worship you!” and no longer saw, forgot the 
specter that sometimes assumed his name, his form, his 
mind, his life — 

But one idea, one vehement desire took possession 
of him, and, in his turn, he wanted to question Ceeile. 

“I have something to ask you myself,” he said 
gently. 

“Speak, dear love.” 

‘ 1 Why did you call Dr. Klipper ? 9 1 

She smiled, a little embarrassed and sad, as if she 
were afraid of wounding him : 

“You know very well — ” 

“Yes, yes, I divine!” he replied. “And I, too, am 
179 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


thinking of this man! A madman, they say. It is 
possible. What should I care if he cured me ? There 
is also a moral — cerebral homeopathy. And the 
genius is he who goes farther, who mounts higher, who 
sees what others do not see ! I will go to Dr. Klipper’s 
house !” 


XV 


THE TWO “MANNERS” OF ANDRlS FORTIS 

Besides, a new source of bewilderment induced 
Andre Fortis to call someone to his aid again. One 
morning, in his studio, he found on his easel a can- 
vas, placed there by some unknown person, which 
alarmed him. A sinister vision, something like the 
terrifying symbolism of modern life; an automobile 
hurled through space, piercing the sky with its burn- 
ing eyes and grinding into a sort of bloody pulp a 
mass of crushed bodies. 

Fortis had seen such paintings by the old masters 
imagining in their visions last judgments, hells, apoc- 
alypses. Formerly he had smiled at the fantastic in- 
ventions of the artist Wiertz, representing, trying to 
fix upon canvas the last thoughts of a suicide or the 
supreme terrors of a man who is to be decapitated. 
But who, entering his studio, could have replaced on 
this easel his usual landscapes, his exquisite woodland 
scenes, or melancholy Venetian views, by these 
funereal images? 

By whom was this canvas, illumined by a spectral 
181 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


lights, with spots of color as dazzling as arc lamps, a 
sort of wager, a duel of intensity between the palette 
and the electric light? What hand had placed there 
this savage evocation, this apotheosis of matter, dash- 
ing out brains, crushing bones under the wheels of a 
monstrous iron machine as, in an attack, the corpses 
of the combatants, horribly disfigured, frightfully 
heaped, are piled upon one another in attitudes at 
once comical and terrible ? 

There was, in these scenes of horror, in which Andre 
did not recognize the manner of any artist whom he 
knew, a rare power in the handling of the appalling 
spectacle, in the sight of a frightful dream. The auto- 
mobile, animated by a terrible speed, seemed actually 
to advance toward the spectator. The canvas had the 
fearful magnetism of the machine, which grew on the 
way and seemed to swell, to distend, to enlarge at 
every turn of the wheels, with its huge locomotive eyes. 

The artist who with sinister coloring had fixed such 
a nightmare, was, in the hideous, a master of his 
style. 

No one had entered the studio; And Cecile had not 
purchased such a vision of horror. 

Perhaps some painter, in search of purchasers, had 
sent his canvas to a colleague, to have an artistic 
opinion or some material assistance. Andre inquired. 
No, no one had come. 


182 


THE TWO “MANNERS” OF ANDRfi FORTIS 


Then he went back to his daily anxiety; he asked 
himself tragical questions, as a man ill with intermit- 
tent fever would feel his pulse. 

Since the adventure of his duel, days had passed, 
during which he had endeavored to reconstruct that 
scene at the Hotel des Reservoirs, of which no con- 
sciousness remained. He knew that Monsieur de Mor- 
liere was getting out of his automobile on the evening 
when the quarrel took place. And, remembering cer- 
tain uncomfortable feelings, warnings that beset him 
on those last days — the fleeting flashes of light, the 
sort of heaviness, of pleasant torpor on the right side 
of his skull — he said to himself, with fresh anger, a 
new dread, that some fit of this intermittence of his 
life must have seized him without his being aware of 
it. Perhaps it was during these attacks of absence of 
mind that, in this very place, the very spot where he 
usually worked with his own colors, his own palette, 
shutting himself up in this beloved studio which was 
his refuge, The Other had come to cast upon the 
canvas these fantastic scenes of cruelty, terror, and 
blood. 

Reasoning with implacable logic, studying in his 
sound condition the acts which he might commit in the 
second state, he explained, by the remembrance of the 
quarrel at Versailles the canvas where automobiling 
was becoming a sort of fierce Moloch. Impressed by 
183 


13 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


the flaming eyes of the machine, the artist had fixed 
the vision, tried to express the impossible, seized a 
nightmare in passing. 

And what artist, if it were not he who had the 
right to enter here at all hours, who lived in this 
house, spent in this luxurious cell a portion of his 
life? 

Before this almost insane picture, Andre remained 
stupefied, as much disturbed in his moral being as he 
could be materially in his body. What a challenge to 
every endeavor of Art was this division of talent in 
the same individuality! A poet here, a visionary 
there! A landscape artist drawing from Nature the 
charm that she reveals to her chosen ones, and a 
seeker of chimeras, grappling in some way with un- 
translatable subjects, visions a la C allot where the 
metal monsters of contemporary industrialism play the 
part of winged dragons, animated toads, or the carica- 
tured demons of the engraver of the temptations of 
Saint Anthony. 

Thus the same brain could conceive scenes so dif- 
ferent ! The art of this mad genius who yonder hurled 
an automobile over corpses was the negation of that 
of the artist who, with a bit of landscape, the cor- 
ner of a village, a first star kindling in a pale sky, 
awakened in the soul a whole world of exquisitely 
sweet dreams. 


184 


THE TWO “MANNERS” OF ANDRfl FORTIS 


A sort of sorrowful irony made Andre’s lips voice 
the thought : 

1 1 The two 1 manners of Andre Fortis. ’ 9 

He was trying to jest with himself, but he felt a 
mournful anger in knowing that he was thus con- 
demned to this sinister duality. 

Then he rummaged the studio, opened portfolios, 
closets, searched the dark corners to find in them per- 
haps other sketches, other canvases of that “Andre,” 
who was not he. Behind a large oak chest, as if hid- 
den from all eyes, he at last discovered the “Golden 
Calf” which had terrified Cecile, that fierce allegory 
of the power of wealth, that composition which re- 
sembled a hypnagogic vision, a sick man’s dream, 
realized by an artist seized with fever in some padded 
cell. 

The temptation abruptly seized him to destroy these 
canvases, burn them; then a singular scruple stopped 
him, a strange, ironically unexpected feeling. 

“Have I the right to convert these works into smoke 
and ashes? If they are by my hand, by a self whom 
I do not know, are they mine?” 

The artist’s respect for the labor of another artist, 
for a work of art, be it what it may, imposed itself 
upon this man in the presence of these productions 
that were doubtless from his hand — but which did not 
belong to him, which came from others, made no part 
185 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 

— even if he had created them, of his work or of his 
life. 

Instinctively speaking aloud, as if answering him- 
self, he said : 

“I do not believe that such a doubt was ever, ever 
imposed upon a man! ,, 

Yes, these productions of an alarming paroxysm be- 
longed to The Other . These extravagant compositions 
had a master, who might be the creature who, at cer- 
tain hours, substituted himself for Andre. Yet had 
Andre Fortis the right to destroy what The Other had 
created ? 

“Why, yes, I have every right,” he said, raising 
the palette knife over these bloody visions. 

He was going to cut, to slash. But he again drew 
back. No, it seemed as if he were attacking the work 
of a human creature. Besides, he wanted to keep 
these canvases to show them to Dr. Chardin, to Dr. 
Klipper. He felt within him the absolute necessity 
for ending this maddening double life. He was weary 
of these suppressions of his own personality by a being 
so unlike himself. He felt that, in the contemplation 
of these terrifying pictures, his ideas were mingling, 
growing confused, that a fever of madness, of unset- 
tled thoughts was beginning. 

What if, during a period when The Other was mas- 
ter of his personality, he should exhibit, send to the 
186 


THE TWO “MANNERS” OF ANDRfi FORTIS 


Salon, under his name, these symbolical paintings? 
If, as he had been responsible for the gesture of that 
other Andre Fortis, he should also be responsible for 
those pictures inscribed in the catalogue in their al- 
phabetical order: Andre Fortis? It would be mad- 
dening ! 

And now he was afraid, materially afraid, that what 
was really absurd in this future possibility might go 
to his brain, might convert his doubt to insanity. 

“Ah! let me be snatched from this obsession! Let 
me be delivered! Let me be restored to myself. I 
have enough, too much of this. I want to escape ! I 
want to recover myself! Kecover myself or end my 
life.” 

The former temptation, the morbid temptation again 
seized upon him. Why not die ? Suicide was so sim- 
ple, so prompt, so easy ! 

But could not this man, this mad genius, cure a 
madman? Andre believed in the exorcism of sci- 
ence. 

“What if I should tell Dr. Klipper everything?” 










PART SECOND 




THE LABORATORY 


Dr. Klipper! 

Since Andre Fortis had heard Dr. Chardin, and 
then Dr. Wyns, speak of this singular man — this 
oddity in medicine — he had had but one desire, to 
place his fate in the hands of this seeker of the im- 
possible. And Cecile had had the same thought, since 
after having written to him a beseeching letter, she 
had consulted the scientist. The difficult thing was 
to enter the Klipper house. In this great, noisy, rest- 
less Paris, hurrying, starving, eager for wealth, work, 
fame, the dreamer of the infinite was obstinately pur- 
suing his task in a corner as unknown as a forgotten 
cenobite’s cell, though in the very heart of the dis- 
tracted city. 

There was in the tumult, the formidable jostling of 
this city of climbers, politicians, financiers, brewers of 
news, brewers of jobs, intriguers, actors, courtiers, 
courtesans — one sacred corner where, finding absolute 
calmness in strenuous toil, continuous labor, a man 
suspected by men of science of pursuing certain dis- 
191 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


coveries that would surpass the most amazing ones of 
a period accustomed to marvels, spent his days, passed 
his nights in a laboratory where no one had pene- 
trated — a scholar of another epoch, a foe to adver- 
tising, eliminating from his life everything which 
could divert him from his goal — crouching in his 
home, cloistered in his work, nourishing his body just 
enough to maintain the health of his mind — the free 
brain, the sound thought, wrestling with Nature, mad 
to snatch from her a secret she was guarding like a 
miser, as if there was a continual duel between them. 

And it was to this man, to this somewhat fantastic 
and Hoffmannesque being, that Andre Fortis was 
going to ask his cure, the help that Dr. Chardin’s pro- 
fessional science did not give him. 

But he did not want to displease Chardin. He 
would not attempt anything without informing the 
physician and, before seeking Jean Klipper, he re- 
turned to consult the scientist in the Boulevard 
Haussmann, found himself in the room where he had 
waited, in a mood so excited, so impatient, on the eve 
of his marriage with Cecile. 

“Why, what is it?” asked Dr. Chardin, noticing his 
embarrassment and hesitation. 

Andre was afraid of wounding him by speaking of 
Klipper. But Dr. Chardin, a free thinker, interested 
in everything, began to laugh, saying: 

192 


THE LABORATORY 


“You remind me of the people who, tired of the 
prescriptions of some prince of science, go to consult 
a bone-setter! And I don’t blame you. I’ve often 
been tempted to ask some old woman ’s remedy for my- 
self. You think that Dr. Klipper has special reme- 
dies ? Go and see Dr. Klipper ! And as he does not 
open his door to everybody, and I have some influence 
with him, I’ll give you a line to this oddity. Listen 
to him, and see him. It’s worth while.” 

Seating himself at his desk, Dr. Chardin had dashed 
off a few words on one of his prescription blanks, ad- 
dressed to Jean Klipper, saying to Andre: 

“This will serve for a Sesame!” 

He put the address: “Dr. Klipper , 4, Place de 
Valois ,” and added on the envelope: “From Dr. 
Chardin.” 

“And you’ll keep me informed, my dear sir?” 

Fortis had hastened to see this Dr. Miracle. For 
a singular and, as it were, fantastic malady, it seemed 
to him that he needed a peculiar healer, out of any 
category, such as the Strassburg physician had been 
described to him. He quickly sought Dr. Klipper ’s 
residence. 

And, remaining an artist even in these visits, he 
experienced an unexpected impression, the joy of the 
sight-seer, in seeking in the old quarter where the sci- 
entist lived, the house Chardin had designated. 

193 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Andre, like the majority of Parisians, did not know 
Paris; he knew only the Paris of his customs and 
friendships. He had crossed the Palais-Royal a hun- 
dred times without stopping at the ancient Cour des 
Fontaines, where he was going to find Klipper. He 
was utterly astonished in passing through the Passage 
Henri IY, dark, narrow, with bags of coal, vegetables, 
black walls, puffs of steam coming out, warm breaths 
from a factory, gratings of gutters, a passage strangu- 
lated like the hernia of that great solemn Cour, the 
Cour des Fontaines, where, in the Place de Valois, 
pierced by various passages, he was going to meet the 
doctor whom the reporter of the Boulevard had vowed 
to unearth. 

What ! It was in this quarter that Klipper had es- 
tablished his laboratory — yonder, two steps from that 
passage leading into the vast arcade of the Rue des 
Bons-Enfants, which seems like the opening of a yawn- 
ing market door — the gaping vault of a central stair- 
case whose stories are seen one above another as, in 
the back of a chimney, through the huge opening, the 
flues ascend. It was in this black block of houses, with 
retail wine-shops, pieces of butcher meat hung from 
hooks, this corner of old Paris, dark, muddy on rainy 
days, with grated windows, gratings at the entrances 
of the passages, dark by night and by day — and of 
dwellings also keeping the solemn aspect of a majestic 
194 


THE LABORATORY 


Paris, a Paris of luxury and power — of lofty houses 
with tiled staircases, resembling convents or barracks, 
and huge slate roofs crowning the high stories of gray 
stone. It was in this Paris of Louis XIY, invaded, 
hustled, flecked by the laboring Paris of the Twen- 
tieth Century, a Paris abolished two paces away by 
the bustle of life, the crush of the excitement of the 
Louvre, the Rue de Rivoli, the Paris of the autos and 
the Metropolitan — it was there that Dr. Klipper pur- 
sued the investigations of which the professional sci- 
entists spoke in low tones as if they were discussing 
miraeles. 

Andre Fortis had imagined Klipper working in the 
shade of the Sorbonne, yonder in some alley of the old 
Latin Quarter. But there, in the tumult of the Rue 
Saint Honore, so near — and so far — from the Insti- 
tute; there in this gloom and doubtless in a cellar, 
where printing offices alone recalled thought, cerebral 
labor, it seemed a wager, a paradox. But everywhere 
the man who is pursuing his dream can render himself 
solitary. 

Besides, the Place de Valois, the Cour des Fon- 
taines, solitary, silent, where the passing of a carriage 
becomes an event, was to Klipper like a corner in a 
provincial city where it would not have been supposed 
that a scientist had taken refuge, in the very heart of 
an unknown Paris. 


195 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


4, Place de Valois ! 

Andre had sought the dwelling. It was the one 
that seemed to be connected with the buildings forming 
the first arch of the Passage Henri IV. A high house, 
with a broad staircase and iron railing, whose windows 
opened upon the square itself, facing the palace. 

He asked for Dr. Klipper. The janitor, sitting in 
his room, appeared astonished. Dr. Klipper was not 
there, and then Dr. Klipper did not receive anyone. 
Not anyone. But the visitor had a letter that must 
open every door. 

4 ‘Go to the second floor, and knock,” said the jani- 
tor with an expression of doubt. 

Andre ascended the two flights of stairs ; it seemed 
to him as if he were climbing the steps of some aban- 
doned seignorial mansion. Upon the landing, with a 
red-tiled floor, two doors opened, one — an unexpected 
thing — bore the name of a sporting paper which was 
printed there and gave the tone to fashion ; the other, 
nameless, must be that of Dr. Klipper. 

He rang the bell. No one answered. He rang a 
second time; the door opened as if it were bolted 
inside, and a very old woman servant, with an Alsa- 
tian accent, asked Andre what he wanted. 

“Dr. Klipper!” 

“He isn’t here.” 

“I have a letter for him — ” 

196 


THE LABORATORY 


i 1 Leave it with me ; I ’ll give it to him. ’ 9 
1 ‘ I must give it to him myself. ’ ’ 

* ‘ He is not here. ’ ’ 

But Andre was determined not to withdraw without 
having seen the doctor. He insisted, saying that the 
matter was serious, and that the very important letter 
came from Dr. Chardin. The name was doubtless 
known to the old Alsatian, for on hearing it, she 
softened and said: “Oh! well!” — then opening the 
door which she had held ajar: 

“If the gentleman will come in, I’ll tell Madame!” 


II 


DEAD EYES 

The maid admitted Andre, who, having crossed the 
anteroom, found himself in a drawing-room with lofty 
windows looking out upon the horizon of slate roofs 
in the square — a drawing-room of olden times, with 
the spaces above the doors ornamented with mytholog- 
ical paintings, a beautiful large Alsatian wardrobe, 
whose open doors revealed piles of books — and every- 
where on the walls more books, old volumes with 
shabby bindings, the books of the investigator, and 
not of the antiquary or the bibliophile. On the walls 
were framed engravings representing the streets of 
Strassburg in former days, the cathedral of red stones, 
the statue of Kleber, a defile of French soldiers — 
marching before houses on which storks were 
perching. 

Andre was looking at all this with the swift, circu- 
lar glance of artists, when the door of the drawing- 
room opened and a young woman entered, a very 
pretty, very fair, very pale young woman, with large 
blue eyes that stared straight before them with a 
198 


DEAD EYES 


strange fixity. She was small, dressed in black, but 
what attracted the painter’s notice at once was the 
golden hue of the hair crowning a face of sorrowful 
sweetness, and the very small, very delicate hands 
which she stretched before her, as if seeking some 
support. 

She was an exquisite vision, still retaining some- 
thing of the young girl, the child, with a caressing 
charm, a tender voice : 

“You have come from Dr. Chardin, sir?” 

“Yes, Madame.” 

“The doctor can refuse no request of Dr. Chardin, 
who has been very kind in speaking of my husband at 
the Academy of Medicine. But the doctor is in his 
laboratory and, when he is working, he receives visits 
reluctantly. Oh ! very reluctantly. What name shall 
I give him, sir, when he comes up ?” 

1 1 Monsieur Andre Fortis. ’ 9 

“Ah!” she cried. 

She smiled vaguely, while her beautiful blue eyes, 
fixed upon Andre, continued to gaze at him without 
any change of expression. 

“You are Monsieur Fortis? Ah! sir, Madame For- 
tis has already wrought a miracle. She induced the 
doctor to leave home and pay a visit. It is the rarest 
thing in his life.” 

When she said “the doctor 99 her voice, exquisite in 
14 199 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


tone, assumed a peculiar expression of respect. Rev- 
erence, affection, a feeling of devoted, absolute ad- 
miration, were in this musical way of pronouncing a 
very simple word. 

“And I must tell you,” the young wife added, “that 
the doctor, who is too much absorbed by his work to 
take any patients, is interested in you. Yes. And in 
Madame Fortis, whose sadness touched him. He told 
me so. We have no secrets and, though ignorant, I 
am the confidant of his investigations. ’ ’ 

Andre had taken from his pocketbook Dr. Chardin *s 
letter. 

“If you will look at this letter of introduction — ” 

He held out the sheet to the young wife. But she 
answered gently, still smiling, her beautiful eyes, the 
color of cornflowers, fixed on vacancy : 

“Then you do not know? I cannot read the let- 
ter.” 

“Why?” 

Without sadness, she answered quietly as if it were 
the most natural thing in the world : 

“Why, because I am blind.” 

Andre had allowed an ah! of pity to escape, and was 
beginning a sentence which she interrupted with a 
gesture of her pretty hand : 

“ Oh ! it isn ’t any more sad than other things ! And 
then — ” 


200 


DEAD EYES 


She added, speaking to herself — her eyes seeing 
nothing of what surrounded her, but her inward vision 
perceiving in some way, in a distant apotheosis, a de- 
liverance, a light : 

“ And then, the doctor is there ! The doctor is seek- 
ing ! He will find it ! I shall see some day ! I shall 
see!” 

She had spoken in her musical voice, as beings of 
faith must speak, following the Master. And Fortis 
felt touched, and also cheered in the presence of this 
suffering thus expressing the certainty of being con- 
soled. 

If the blind woman believed that Klipper could re- 
store her sight, why should he not have hoped that he 
could cure a neurosis? 

Andre gazed at the young face, keeping on the lips 
a smile that was not even resigned, but happy, which 
certain blind persons have, as if their blindness 
snatched them from the sight of human ugliness, and 
— he had noticed it at once — he saw in the middle of 
the very white forehead a reddish-brown spot, round 
as a large medal, which appeared there like a mark of 
dregs of wine, but seemed more like a scorch, a recent 
wound. 

The young wife, who did not seem to suffer from it, 
added : 

“Will you follow me, sir?” 

201 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


She went as straight as if her eyes had guided her 
toward the mantelpiece, where she took a little lantern 
whose candle she lighted without hesitation. Andre, 
from seeing her actions, would never have suspected 
that she was blind. As if she had divined his thought, 
she said a little sadly : 

“Habit!” 

She held the lantern in her hand. 

“It is not for myself, I can find my way on the 
staircase without seeing, but for you who could not see 
— for we are going into a cellar. The cellar of this 
house is the doctor’s laboratory.” 

She passed in front of Fortis, and the artist ad- 
mired the graceful carriage, the unhesitating step of 
the blind woman, and the sorrowful smile, resigned, 
yet tender, on the virginal face. 

They went down the broad stairway, the young wife 
holding by the iron railing, to the lowest story, where, 
groping with her hand along the wall, she pushed open 
the door leading to the stairs in the dark. To light 
the somewhat worn stone steps of this new subter- 
ranean staircase, the lantern was useful to Andre. 
Madame Klipper guided herself by the facing of the 
thick solid walls, absolutely free from dampness. And 
the artist, thus preceded by this blind woman bearing 
a light that she could not see, had a vague feeling of 
living for the moment a scene of some fantastic tale, 
202 


DEAD EYES 


passing through a dream of a Hoffmann, a Poe, a 
Hawthorne. 

They went down a few steps. The cellars of the 
house, which opened here and there, were common- 
place, but at the end of a somewhat long corridor they 
reached a door apparently larger, closed by a heavy 
bolt, whose rusty iron shone in the light of the lantern. 


Ill 


UNKNOWN THINGS 

The young wife knocked at this door with little 
raps, evidently arranged in advance as if by a Masonic 
regulation. After quite a short interval, a man ap- 
peared on the threshold, lighted at once by the rays 
of the lantern which fell on his face in front, and 
by the dim glimmer of some air-hole that, coming 
from the rear of the courtyard behind, made a sort 
of pale aureola. Between these two different lights, 
small, thin, with long, very white hair framing a 
lean, smooth-shaven face with an eagle nose, a face 
in which eyes, strange eyes, fiery black, sparkled 
and burned with an inward flame — Dr. Klipper, 
muffled in a black overcoat, seemed like some 
creature of a dream, a being of a different time 
and race, forgotten there in the midst of modern 
Paris. 

The face of the scientist, astonished at being in- 
terrupted in his work in the depths of this subter- 
ranean cell, expressed a sort of sullen anger, the 
mouth with scornful lips like that of the bust of 
204 



“The little man’s terrible black eyes sought in the dusk for Fortis. 




UNKNOWN THINGS 


Machiavelli in the Uffizi gallery, puckering and be- 
ginning a sentence, when the young wife, in her sweet, 
musical voice, explained: 

“It is Monsieur Fortis — Andre Fortis, of whom 
you spoke to me yesterday, and whom you wanted to 
see ! ’ ’ 

Then the disagreeable, almost harsh expression of 
the face changed, and the little man’s terrible black 
eyes sought in the dusk for Fortis to question him very 
quickly. 

A subject! An extraordinary case! A phenome- 
non! Dr. Klipper would not disturb himself unless 
for exceptions which appeared before him as remarka- 
ble problems. 

“Ah! ah!” he said with a slight Alsatian accent 
still preserved, “Monsieur Andre Fortis! Come in! 
Come in !” 

Andre explained this eagerness to himself by 
Cecile’s disclosures. She had consulted the doctor, 
and thus the explanations he might have to give the 
physician would be simplified. 

The aritist found himself again the artist — almost 
forgetting that he was a sick man coming to consult 
a master — while looking at the frame which sur- 
rounded the scientist, the hidden corner where Jean 
Klipper was pursuing his discoveries. 

Andre was experiencing the pleasurable sensatiom 
205 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


of a journey in an unknown country, an unexpected 
meeting. 

This laboratory of Dr. Klipper under the vaulted 
roof of the cellar in the old Parisian house imme- 
diately evoked the image of those dusty comers in 
which Rembrandt showed, in a strange dusk, al- 
chemists and rabbis. Retorts were outlined against 
the wall, extended by tubes coiled like serpents; 
wires hung from the ceiling, clung to the partitions, 
started from some implement of singular aspect to 
end in some accumulator, electric wires that played 
the part of the spider webs in the pictures of the 
great Dutch magician — science thus arriving at the 
same picturesqueness as art. 

And it was the scientist himself who had put up 
these wooden partitions, along which ran scattered 
flasks, this furnace, these china tiles, the whole 
scenery and appliances of this cellar cell, in which 
he shut himself, pursuing his dream, eager for the 
solution of the problems presented, living an in- 
tense solitary existence, a hunter crouched as if 
watching for the impossible among these instruments 
which he had constructed or perfected with his own 
hands, dark rooms of photography which he had made 
instruments of his investigations, and (Andre in- 
stantly questioned him and Klipper answered with 
the ingenuous pride of the man who feels that he 
206 


UNKNOWN THINGS 


is admired in his works, his efforts) there, between 
the compressed air stored in a reservoir, the elec- 
tric light perched upon a sector, the instrument which 
aided him to decompose metals by the light, Klipper 
had passed hours and hours, long hours for years 
in pursuing researches which seemed like conflicts 
with the impossible. 

Daylight entered this subterranean laboratory only 
through the air-hole opening on the Cour de Yalois. 
But between this light from the outside and the light 
from within, used by him, Klipper had placed a black 
canvas screen, which, when he needed it, made the 
darkness complete, permitted the scientist to work in 
the total gloom traversed by the light rays he produced. 

Andre gazed, storing this vision in his memory. 
And, to him, it was at once a disturbing and pa- 
thetic scene — the little thin man as if lost in the 
jumble of these implements of copper and glass, 
among these retorts, these India-rubber tubes like 
black serpents — and this poetic young woman, so 
exquisitely pretty, standing there, her light in her 
hand, who seemed to be the Muse incarnate, the 
living Muse of this poet of science, toiling in the 
darkness to measure himself with the infinite. 

“Then, my dear Master,’ ’ said Fortis, genuinely 
moved, “this is the corner of the earth from which 
some scientific revolution will come?” 

207 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Beneath his long white hair, Jean Klipper uttered 
a little hard laugh. 

“Oh ! A revolution ! — A revolution ! I know that, 
because I live in a cellar, the professional scientists 
have jestingly called me the Marat of science. But 
I have no wish to revolutionize anything. I seek 
only truth, and truth everywhere. Yes, yes,” he said, 
growing excited, gesticulating nervously, laying his 
thin fingers on his instruments, which he lovingly 
caressed, “I want to find in electricity and light all 
that Nature is hiding. The Bays, all these Bays that 
seem to issue from the earth are blazes of light 
which will illumine all the dark places. Badium 
is a symbol. And there are other radiums in 
the vast universe. There are other forces, other 
mysteries! All this will come forth, will be born, 
will live.” 

Then, as Andre asked to what special task he 
was devoting himself at present, Klipper shook his 
head. 

“Oh! I am pursuing several hares at once,” he 
said, a little banteringly in the Alsatian fashion, 
“but at the moment, this is what I was doing when 
you knocked — ” 

And, explaining that he was decomposing metals, 
casting on the wall the rays of the solar spectrum, 
he arrived at calculating the portion of such or such 
208 


UNKNOWN THINGS 


a metal contained in the light of such a star, the 
rays of the sun, the planets of infinitude, the conti- 
nents of space. So that he had there, in this cel- 
lar, the secret of the stars, the numberless spheres 
suspended in space. 

He said, smiling: 

“I am dissecting the stars.’ ’ 

And the little blind wife softly commented in her 
plaintive, tender voice : 

“It would be pleasanter to go to them.” 

There was so much sadness and poetry in this 
sort of exquisite melopeia, that Fortis was moved 
by it. 

Jean Klipper replied that she was making dreams, 
and he was pursuing science. Then, turning to his 
wife: 

“You think as a poet; I calculate, I observe as a 
physician. And the fact, when I can prove it, some- 
times attains an intensity of amazement which re- 
sembles the poesy of science, or rather, you see, 
makes science itself the infinite poesy of the future.” 

Klipper addressed himself by turns to the poetic 
woman, and to Fortis. 

“The human heart and its recesses, Nature and 
her mysteries, two infinities, my dear little one, which 
will never, never weary the curiosity of man. I 
shall have perhaps discovered, sir, a few fragments, 
209 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


a few atoms of truth in my long and well-loved 
labor, and I shall die before even having found 
the hundredth millionth part of what perhaps the 
generations to come will some day discover. It is 
infinity, this universe; it is the great boundless 
sea; it is the unknown country — deeper than the 
ether !” 

He abruptly showed Andre one of the instru- 
ments in his laboratory. 

4 ‘This wheel which turns, moved by compressed 
air, and which we hear turning, and you will see 
some day, I hope — ” he said, his voice curt, looking 
with fixed eyes at his young wife — “is making a 
thousand revolutions a minute. There are some 
which make six thousand. Do you believe that pos- 
sible? It is. And the wheel is very small. Well! 
Imagine a gigantic wheel, moved by a colossal elec- 
trical machine, that giant wheel might make an 
entire world move. Perhaps some day it will be 
manufactured! Ah! we know nothing, nothing, 
nothing yet! But we are going to know, we are 
going to know! To know! To know! To know!” 

He repeated the word with a wild expression. He 
was intoxicated by it as if it were a new kind of 
alcohol. 

* 1 To know ! To know ! To live to seek, to learn ! ’ ’ 

He was growing excited, and Andre noticed in his 
210 


UNKNOWN THINGS 


black eyes a sort of flame that seemed to have the 
glare of a madman’s look. 

But, as if the little blind wife, instead of divin- 
ing, had actually seen, perceived this morbid flame, 
her voice interrupted, gently calmed this excitement. 

“My dear, I beg you — ” 

“Yes, dear Marthe, you are right. Calmness. 
Nothing can be done without calmness.” 

Quivering and excited just now, he was suddenly 
quieted by the simple words of this woman-child. 

Then, taking Marthe ’s little hands in his thin 
fingers, he said to her with deep tenderness, as in- 
finite as his hopes: 

“Leave us. I want to talk with Monsieur Fortis.” 

She turned to Andre. 

“Here is the lantern, sir. You will only have 
to take it when you go up again.” 

* 4 But you, Madame ? ’ ’ 

“Oh! I believe that, not seeing the way, I am 
the one who sees it best. ’ ’ 

The little blind lady smiled sweetly over her mis- 
fortune. 

“And,” Klipper then said in a firm tone, “a day 
will come when the blind will see — when the third 
eye will replace the closed ones! Everything comes 
with patience and faith.” 

“When there is genius,” replied Marthe Klipper, 
211 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


in the tone of boundless adoration, as in the fervor 
of a prayer. 

Andre saw her retire, vanish in the gloom, like a 
vision in this fairy laboratory, with that red spot 
in the middle of her forehead which gave her the 
appearance of a living martyr. And it seemed to 
him that the little blind lady might have carried 
away the light, the light of her body replacing the 
extinguished light of her eyes. 


IV 


THE LIGHT OF HOPE 

AndrIs was recalling to mind the strange remarks 
of the scientists who were relating at Madame de 
Verniere’s the experiments tried upon the blind 
girl, the penetrating rays of light cast upon the fore- 
head of a human being, with the certainty of slowly 
making emerge from it a hidden eyeball, living, 
luminous, replacing the extinguished ones, the dead 
eyes. 

He followed with his gaze Marthe disappearing in 
the darkness of the cellar, and wondered whether this 
exquisite creature was a victim pursuing with a 
maniac, whose living subject for experiment she 
was, the “ sorrowful dream” of life, or if she was, 
as she felt firmly convinced, a martyr destined to 
be saved, restored to the light by genius. 

That word was to her the same as Klipper’s 
name, as she had pronounced it: genius. 

She put her whole soul into this hymn of trust- 
ing tenderness. And Andre, in his turn, gazed at 
the little alert, strange man, as if he found himself 
213 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


in the presence of an unreal being, living a chimer- 
ical existence. 

But the terribly alive thing in this singular per- 
son was the fire of his eyes, obstinately fixed upon 
Andre, who could scarcely endure their keenness. 
Klipper was seated on a stool behind the electrical 
machine which he was using when they rapped at 
his door and, with his elbows resting on the board 
that held the instrument, he was studying the vis- 
itor who came to interrupt him. His thin face, 
propped on bony hands whose fingers were thrust 
into the long silvery hair, assumed a fantastic, 
anxious expression, and amid the entangled elec- 
tric wires, Andre thought of some strange human 
spider cowering in the bottom of his web, watching 
for prey. It was not, however, to devour, but to 
cure, that the watch was kept. 

“I can’t see you sufficiently well,” said Jean Klip- 
per, rising quickly. 

He drew up the black shade which excluded the 
light outside, and through the air-hole filtered a 
bluish glimmer which gave this strange laboratory 
a still more spectral appearance. 

“Put yourself in the light,” said the doctor, who 
had resumed his place behind his instruments. “We 
have no occasion to go up to my office for what you 
214 


THE LIGHT OF HOPE 


have to tell me, and a consultation among my 
machines does not alarm you, I think ?” 

“On the contrary, my dear Master.’ ’ 

Jean Klipper shrugged his shoulders. 

“Do not call me dear Master. The word is made 
commonplace by use at every turn; it is ridiculous. 
Dear Master ! dear Master ! Are there any mas- 
ters? We are all pupils. We spell — poets, the 
alphabet of the human heart, scientists, that of 
science. Masters? There is only one master, who 
is an imperious, cruel mistress, Nature!” 

While speaking, he was examining Andre, who 
enjoyed the interview as if it were a spectacle, 
mentally comparing the scientific lair of this odd 
person with Dr. Chardin’s luxurious drawing-room. 

“Sir,” said Jean Klipper, “Madame Fortis, in 
summoning me to her, used the name of a man who 
is very dear to me, and though I receive no 
patients, no, none, having too little time to live to 
carry out my personal investigations, it has been 
agreeable to me to study one case, interesting in many 
respects, your own. It does not directly fit into 
my studies. But everything relating to neuroses, 
to the brain, interests me deeply, and if I can col- 
laborate with Dr. Chardin in your cure, I shall be 
happy. You are a living problem and, though you 
215 


15 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


may disturb me a little — yes, you do disturb me — I 
am delighted to see you. ’ ’ 

The little man, while speaking, had a slightly 
ironical smile upon his lips. The Alsatian accent 
was again quite apparent. He said tirectly, acreea- 
ble, and the accent gave his words a special zest. 
The living Broblem was listening and studying also. 

Then Klipper questioned, as Chardin had done. 
Andre related his terrors, the obsession of his 
troubled life, the heaviness of the head, the sud- 
den flashes of light which passed before his eyes as 
if announcing a storm, or rather a dense cloud, 
an interruption of existence. And Klipper, in the 
most natural manner in the world, as if these in- 
credible phenomena had been absolutely trite, an- 
swered very coldly in a curt tone: 

‘‘Well, well. That is perfectly simple / ’ 

“Perfectly simple ?” said Andre. 

“Perfectly simple, because it is the confirmation, 
the proof of a fact that would astonish many people, 
but which is, to me at least, mathematical. Per- 
fectly simple/ ’ 


y 


THE UNCONSCIOUS SELF 

Doctor Klipper shook back his long white hair. 
“ Certainly, certainly,” he said, “man is double; we 
must accustom ourselves to recognize this; yes, yes, 
it must be confessed, whatever our foolish pride may 
be. Have you read Myers? Evidently not. It is 
with him that we can see our ego is made up of 
two egos, the supraliminal, which is conscious of 
everything, and the subliminal, which is unconscious, 
lives an obscure and independent existence. These 
somewhat barbaric words tell you nothing, but they 
have now passed into current speech. There are 
two beings in our being ; what in you is morbid, car- 
ried to paroxysms, is latent in those whom you 
elbow. There is within me an unconscious self that 
is listening to what I am telling you, and perhaps 
is dictating my words at this very moment. ‘I 
count for nothing in it,’ Mozart said to those who 
were complimenting him on one of his sonatas. It 
was the unconscious self that had dictated a mas- 
terpiece to his normal self, and you, since you ap- 
217 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


peal to me, you are doubled, and you believe your- 
self a unique example of this dividing of your ego. 
You have a second life, a second self? But a cer- 
tain Louis Vide, studied by Bourra and Barot, had 
six different existences, six distinct personalities. 
Six! This cannot astonish you, I think; you are 
not going to cry out at the miracle, since you are 
yourself a living miracle! Six existences, six dis- 
positions, six characters. A woman studied by Mor- 
ton Prince, Miss Beauchamp, had three ; Helene 
Smith, a subject studied by Flournay; Annel 
Bourne, whose case Hodgson has described, had gusts 
of distinct personalities as spontaneous as gusts of 
wind. The modifications were immediate. You 
spoke to one — another answered. Ah! the conscious 
and the unconscious self, the supraliminal, and 
the subliminal. Problems, mysteries ! Schopenhauer 
speaks of certain moments in his life when his 
will seemed sleeping, when his mind was impelled 
in a direction seen beforehand. Have you read 
Schopenhauer much? Fine ladies have made him 
fashionable without generally understanding him. 
‘I myself/ he says in his own words, ‘was unac- 
quainted with the work/ On receiving his books, 
he asked himself: ‘Did I write this?' It was he, 
but one would have supposed that someone else had 
dictated it!” 


218 


THE UNCONSCIOUS SELF 


“I and the The Other /” said Andre who, while 
Klipper was speaking, experienced all the torture 
of former sufferings. 

Then, with increasing fury, his wrath against 
that other, the robber of his personality, regaining 
all its violence, he asked Jean Klipper — as he would 
have appealed to a supreme sovereign — to tear him 
from this obsession, this possession, this torture. 

4 4 Ah! your science! Your science explains 
everything,” he said bluntly, 4 ‘but it cures noth- 
ing.” 

Klipper made no answer for a moment, then he said 
gently : 

“I have told you that we were only pupils. Yet 
everything can be cured, if we so will. Do you 
want me to tell you where your remedy lies? In 
illusion!” 

“Illusion?” Andre repeated. 

“Everything here below is illusion in a certain 
order of things. Happiness? Illusion. We are 
happy only if we believe we are happy. Men con- 
demned to the unforeseen, not to mention the foreseen, 
which is inevitable, are happy only through imagina- 
tion. Say to yourself that this other who is in you 
does not exist, exists no longer, and he will never 
reappear. Your double , like your own personality, 
is illusion. Your art, which consists in putting ex- 
219 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


quisite lies upon canvas, is illusion. Joy is illusion ! 
Beauty is illusion ! ’ ’ 

“Ah! Doctor, beauty is perhaps the most cer- 
tain thing in the world, ’ ’ cried the artist. 

“Who knows ?” replied Jean Klipper, with his 
little ironical laugh. 

Rubbing his hands, he added: 

“We find beauty where there is precisely only 
illusion, the phantom of beauty. I could have la 
Joconde thought absolutely ugly, and the hideous 
Hottentot Venus, who, however, is ideal beauty to 
the Hottentots, perfectly beautiful! Aha!” said the 
little man, “if I wished. ’ ’ 

“If you wished?” 

The old Alsatian’s black eyes darted flames. 

“I told you that we are pupils, ignorant, power- 
less, yes, compared with the absolute, but we have 
power, we can do many things!” 

He looked Andre Fortis steadily in the face. 

“You are 'an artist? I am an artist, too, in my 
style. I could — ” 

He hesitated, then, as if in a triumphant avowal 
of his genius, added : 

“I could make living portraits which would have 
only the shadow of an existence! Illusion! Sov- 
ereign illusion! To give for instance to a man who 
had married an ugly wife, the illusion of having 
220 


THE UNCONSCIOUS SELF 


wedded a brilliant beauty! Oh! Certainly! Cer- 
tainly! It would be an illusion, but what of that? 
Love lives by illusions. Illusions! Illusions! Love, 
like all the rest, is only an illusion !” 

“An ugly woman can very easily please the man 
who loves her,” said Fortis. “It is quite simple. 
There is a mystery of attraction. ’ ’ 

“Oh! that isn’t what I mean,” replied Klipper; 
“I mean that the woman may remain ugly, be ut- 
terly ugly, and that the man may see her very beau- 
tiful, absolutely beautiful — and this by means of 
spectacles which I would undertake to manufacture 
myself. Come, are you somewhat acquainted with 
physics ? ’ ’ 

“Well! Well!” said Andre smiling, all his at- 
tention strained to hear the disclosures of this 
man, a sort of priest of the Kabbala, buried 
in a Parisian cavern, like a kobold in his dark 
mine. 

“I am going to try to explain the problem to 
you; you are an artist, once more, it will be easy 
for you to understand. Mirrors, sir, reflect perfect 
images, if their form is flat, and their surface well 
polished ; these images become coarse and misshapen, 
as soon as the glass is out of shape and bends. 
You have seen the caricatures which they then un- 
expectedly give back to you?” 

221 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“Yes, certainly.” 

“When the curve is regular, the deformation is, 
too, and the effects which result can be infinitely 
varied. Certain skillfully constructed mirrors show 
us on a small scale — like an elegant miniature which 
they seem to beautify — the face that is presented 
to us. Others, more easily made, change the pro- 
portions, and produce the caricatures of which I 
am speaking, some widening, others lengthening the 
features. Incredibly swollen Sanchos, or Don 
Quixotes long drawn out and fantastically thin. 
These mirrors are the most simple. The effects can 
be infinitely varied. It is a geometrical problem, 
belonging to catoptrics. But we have dioptrics — 
Don ’t be alarmed. I am talking like one of Moliere ’s 
pedants — ” 

“And I am as ignorant as Monsieur Jourdain,” 
said Andre. 

“Dioptrics is the science of rays refracted through 
a transparent medium. It presents more difficult 
problems and more varied solutions. Each point 
illumined, when seen through a transparent glass, 
is perceived in a different position from the real 
one, a position that depends upon the form of the 
surfaces which bound the magnifying glass on all 
sides. Well, if in the instrument, instead of one 
transparent glass, we interpose two, three, four, 
222 


THE UNCONSCIOUS SELF 


six glasses, perhaps, between the eye and the object 
it sees, we can produce the strangest deformations, 
the most unexpected images, what we call anamor- 
phoses. Understand me fully; if the object beheld 
is a square, its image could be rendered circular. 
Or, if this should be square, the eye would see a 
circle. By means of constructing an instrument, 
all the illusions, all the visions that might be de- 
sired could be given. We could cause what does 
not exist to be seen in a living being or at least 
modify what does exist/ ’ 

“Actually?” 

“Oh! of course, the problem would be difficult. 
Yet much less than that of squaring the circle. But 
to change, modify, improve a face, lengthen or 
broaden the oval, give the forehead more height, 
make the mouth smaller, etc., etc., would be only 
sport, mere sport to an ingenious and skillful opti- 
cian in the presence of a bust always ready to pose, 
always motionless. He could — I could — by putting 
the glasses farther apart or closer together, by con- 
stantly polishing and repolishing them without 
causing the removal of the surfaces, show the spec- 
tator the features faithfully reproduced of a bust 
totally unlike the real one. For instance, I will 
undertake to give anyone who is looking at iEsop the 
pleasure of contemplating Plato, to anyone who 
223 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


has before him a Megsera, the joy of seeing the 
Venus de Milo. 

“Is it possible ?” 

“Very possible. Everything is possible/ ’ said 
Klipper. 

It seemed to Andre as if he were living in a dream. 
Was he really awake? Would he not find himself 
cast suddenly into the midst of a dream? Was he 
conscious of his own personality? 

Was this Dr. Klipper, strange, ironical, eloquent, 
nervous, with his black eyes glowing like flames, his 
nostrils breathing in life, vibrating like wings, his 
guttural accent, his curt gestures, really a creature 
of flesh and blood? 

Of all the scientist had just said, Fortis remem- 
bered especially the last three words, the proud 
affirmation of a boundless power. 

“Everything is possible !” 

And the tone in which he had uttered this posi- 
tive assertion gave the artist the certainty, that 
absolute faith which Klipper made the supreme 
force : illusion ! 

“I will cure! I will cure! Everything is possi- 
ble!” 

What had especially attracted the Alsatian doc- 
tor’s notice in the artist’s disclosures was the last 
adventure, the duel accepted for another — a man 
224 


THE UNCONSCIOUS SELF 


giving satisfaction to an adversary for an insult 
he had not offered, a gesture of which he was un- 
conscious — and Jean Klipper’s ever active mind 
already saw in the complication of this episode a 
possible means for Andre to escape the obsession 
of which he was the victim. 

“Good Heavens, ” he said, a little roughly, “I 
see that you are going to occupy more of my time 
than I should like. But you are not an ordinary 
patient ! Your poor wife has interested me ; she has 
touched mine — and then, besides — though you are 
not unique, I told you so — yes, yes, don’t have the 
vanity of your suffering — I believe that something 
may be accomplished!” 

“If everything is possible, — you said so, Doctor, — 
do the possible, and try the impossible! Make me 
become myself again — escape at last the grasp of The 
Other.” 

“Do, do, I know well, I know well. The Other 
must be killed, that’s all!” 

Rising, Klipper added : 

“Let me think it over! Come and see me again!” 

“When, Doctor?” 

“Whenever you please. I shall have reflected, 
calculated. Come back. You will always find me 
here, or almost always. I never go out; life is too 
short.” 


225 


VI 


THE THIRD EYE 

Andre came out of this wretched laboratory with 
his heart full of joy. Hope is the human viaticum. 
While walking on, he repeated the old Alsatian’s 
positive words: “ Everything is possible.” And, 
this time, the realization of this possibility seemed 
near. Undoubtedly he had had the same hope the day 
he had consulted Dr. Chardin. He had had faith. 
He had believed himself free. 

But to-day the man whom he had just seen in- 
spired greater confidence. The irregular of science 
would find the remedy of which the official scientist 
had only caught a glimpse. 

Why did Andre trust more to this last counselor? 
Man requires successive little lights to guide him 
through the mist and darkness. One is extinguished 
by a gust of wind, another kindles. And the way 
ends when the last light, the very last, flickers and 
dies. 

And to Andre this scientist shut up in the cellar 
of the Cour de Valois, ‘‘dissecting,” as he said, the 
226 


THE THIRD EYE 


stars, was a living light. Stars were those glittering 
black eyes which had searched, penetrated to the 
depths of Andre Fortis’s soul. A star was the 
brain of this man, of whom Chardin said: 

4 4 He is a madman, but he is a genius . ’ 7 

When Fortis had gone, Jean Klipper left his 
laboratory and, after locking the door of his cellar, 
went up to his apartment. 

He felt wearied; he wanted to rest. And his 
rest, all his pleasure, was in seeing the beloved 
creature who — with science — constituted his whole 
life and, moving to and fro near him, was the smile 
— a sorrowful smile — of his stubbornly austere 
life. 

The little wife shared all his cares and — in spite 
of the blindness that seemed to shut her away from 
the world — remained, by a phenomenon of intelli- 
gent kindness, like the devoted maid-servant, very 
practical and very helpful to the scientist. She 
divined everything; she knew the place of every- 
thing in the apartments; she found on the library 
shelves the book Klipper needed. She laid the 
table, at meal hours, better than old Anna, the maid- 
servant. 

Her husband often said to her: 

“You have eyes in the tips of your fingers !” 

The sense of touch, developed to extreme acute- 
227 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 

ness, as in many blind persons, was like a second 
sight. 

“We might live very happily in this way always,” 
said the scientist. “But no, but no, I expect, you 
hear, I expect that from your brow, this beautiful 
brow like an exquisite child ’s, will burst forth, emerge, 
the eye that will give you sight ! ’ ’ 

While speaking in this way, he caressed with his 
thin fingers the pretty, fair-haired girl's smooth fore- 
head, marking on it with his nail the very spot 
where that hidden eye, the complementary eye, the 
unknown eye which the human race possesses, could 
and must come forth. 

Marthe, confiding, made no reply. She submitted 
with entire faith, absolute patience, to the experi- 
ments of the husband who imposed upon her the 
tortures of this faith — keeping her for hours and 
hours in the dark laboratory beneath the projection 
of the intense electric light, the ray of infinite power 
which, according to Klipper’s calculations — would 
cause the development, the opening of that third eye 
with which the scientist wished to endow humanity. 

In this old apartment in the Place de Valois a 
constant, a poignant drama was being performed, of 
which Paris was ignorant, whose secret escaped even 
reporters as keen as Frederic Clement: there was 
a man of genius bent upon the solution of an insane 
228 


THE THIRD EYE 


problem, and an obedient young wife, sacrificing 
herself to the physician’s experiments, holding her 
forehead to the burning ray as an Iphigenia would 
have bowed her head to the knife. 

Self-sacrificing. No. To Marthe Klipper there 
was no sacrifice in these long hours spent beneath 
the jet of the electric light, those slow halting places 
before the machine whence the ray issued sharp 
and burning — no sacrifice, but a joy, a wild joy, 
the delight of collaborating — even though as a victim 
• — in a sublime work, the joy of giving her body as 
material for study to the man, the great man whose 
name she bore. 

And the blind woman remained without stirring 
under the implacable ray, her brow bent by the 
moxa, marked beneath her beautiful fair hair by 
the stigmata of science, burned — but intoxicated with 
happiness, with a sort of hysteria of sacrifice at the 
idea that, if Klipper at last found the solution he 
sought, it would be in and through her. 

Oh! it was not her egotism that gave her this 
fond intoxication. 

Recovering her sight was a matter almost indiffer- 
ent to her. She did not think of herself. She was 
thinking only of others, or rather only of him. 

If he should make this incredible discovery! If 
man, condemned to his present form for thousands 
229 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


of years, should suddenly recover, thanks to Klip- 
per, a portion of his lost heritage ! 

To endow mankind with a means of new vision! 
To restore to those who can no longer see the means 
of sight! To resuscitate the fabled Cyclops, and 
make modern men of them! Jean Klipper seemed 
to Marthe a diviner of unknown springs, a seeker 
of buried treasures, who gave back to the race the 
riches of which it had been robbed. 

She felt a pride in being thus — whether the experi- 
ment succeeded or not — the hostage of this scientist 
in his war against the impossible. 

Besides, why should not the experiment succeed? 
The young wife shared Klipper ’s confidence and 
lived upon his dream, like those beings who, one 
influencing the other, share the same chimera while 
living a double madness. 

Marthe sometimes believed she already felt the 
sensation of an opening, and her imagination showed 
her her forehead yawning, bursting under the ray of 
light, like a ripe pomegranate. 

Yet, if the miracle was realized, what joy it would 
be! And realized it would be, since Jean Klipper 
had predicted it. Marthe, like a devotee smiling 
in her faith, would have considered the least doubt 
of the scientist’s omnipotence a sacrilege. 

When, suggested by Klipper ’s own words, she told 
230 


THE THIRD EYE 


him that she felt vague hopes, as if the bones in 
her face had undergone some change, proved by the 
cracking she thought she noticed, the scientist an- 
swered gently: 

“When you are able to see me, if I succeed in 
restoring your sight, who knows whether you will 
still love me, when your eyes show me as an old man ! 
My hair is white, Marthe! I have wrinkles, you do 
not know that ! ’ ’ 

Then she took his hands, pressed them in her 
own, leaned her fair, childish head on the investiga- 
tor’s shoulder and, in a very tender voice, replied: 
“It is work that has whitened your hair, the search 
for so many truths that has given wrinkles. You 
are not the old man you say, and I love you, and 
shall always love you with the same ardently grate- 
ful, devoted passion, ah! Jean, devoted enough to 
die for you, if it were necessary, if you wished it. ’ ’ 

He patted her hands : 

“No, happily, no; the point in question is not 
to die, but to live.” 

And he grew excited over his possible discovery, 
dreaming this dream to improve Nature, to add to 
man an instrument of new life, to develop this em- 
bryo of forgotten eyes in the bodies of human beings. 

“Yes, I know I would not be believed if I should 
tell them what I was seeking; they would talk of 
16 231 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Sainte-Anne and those who have chairs in the In- 
stitute would vote me a padded cell! I know, I 
know. But you, you believe in me, you believe, you 
divine! — And I love you for your goodness, as I 
love you for your confidence! — I torture you, you 
know how to suffer under the ray that eats into your 
flesh!” 

“I? No! I do not suffer!” 

Marthe ’s voice had rapturous caresses when she 
answered in this way, and a flame seemed kindling 
in the depths of her sightless eyes, as the lifted 
lashes accompanied the delicious smile of her lips. 

“I weary you by leaving you hours and hours 
before that electrical machine. ’ ’ 

“I am never weary, when I hear you speak, or 
when you are walking near me.” 

“And what are you thinking during these hours 
of trial, my poor Marthe?” 

“I am thinking that you are the best of human 
beings, and the most learned man in this country ! ’ ’ 

“Don’t say that, don’t say that, Marthe! Do 
you know what others are seeking, what others have 
perhaps found? There are so many efforts of the 
brain nowadays; this little ant w T ho is called man 
is multiplying so many attempts to transport bits 
of straw! Perhaps, in some unknown laboratory, 
some attic or cellar, there is an unknown scientist 
232 


THE THIRD EYE 


who at this moment is discovering an engine, motor, 
or light that will unsettle the world. There is per- 
haps another who is finding a powder capable of 
blowing up the entire universe! Who would sus- 
pect that, in our cellar in the Rue de Valois, I am 
pursuing this dream of restoring sight to the blind 
by giving mankind a new eye ? ’ ’ 

Then, forgetting that he had said and repeated 
to the young wife twenty, a hundred times, what he 
always reiterated with fresh excitement, he per- 
sisted, his voice sometimes becoming panting, em- 
phasizing the words with his Alsatian accent, re- 
turning to his eternal besetting subject with the 
fervor of an apostle : 

“Everything in Nature has a purpose, everything. 
This forgotten eye, more or less distinct in all verte- 
brates; this eye, which is neither glands, nervous 
ganglions nor lymphatic ganglions made of a 
few nervous fibers and calcareous secretions, must 
have a purpose ; there must be some object for 
this degenerate organ, which I wish to regen- 
erate. Reduced to nothing in some, more devel- 
oped in others, no longer receiving, says Luydig, 
luminous rays, but only calorific ones, it is in 
us a sort of eye thermometer. In any case, 
atrophied or rudimentary, it exists! And I desire 
not only that it shall exist, but that it shall be of 
233 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


some service ; that this eye which no longer re- 
ceives light should again perceive and give it. After 
all, Marthe, our ancestors knew this pineal gland 
considered as a third eye! The anatomists of Ga- 
lien’s time regarded it as a plug, a simple cork in- 
tended to open and close the aqueduct of Silvius. 
If the organ turned backward, it might really obstruct 
the passage. At least they held this opinion, which 
Galien himself did not. So he treated them as igno- 
rant men, ignoramuses.” 

“And Descartes!” 

f Jean Klipper opened a large book and read to 
Marthe, who always listened with enraptured pa- 
tience, the eternal lesson of the master. 

“He has not said that this eye, this third eye, was 
the seat of the soul. No. This is what I find in his 
treatise. Listen. ’ ’ 

“I am listening.” 

“It is the source of spirits. Animal spirits in the 
time of Descartes. What we now call the nervous 
influx. Spirits flow from the pineal gland into the 
concavities of the brain. ‘It must be imagined as 
an abundant spring — a very little thing is required 
to incline it more or less, sometimes to one side, some- 
times to the other — and while thus inclining, it leads 
the spirits that issue from it to take their course 
toward certain places in the brain rather than toward 
234 


THE THIRD EYE 


others/ And quite naturally Descartes’s opinion has 
been distorted by his commentators, Regius and Louis 
de la Forge, scouted by Voltaire as a man of brains. 

‘‘Men of brains, you see, Marthe, men of brains 
are the great flatterers of fools and artisans of folly! 
The soul should be seated there like a coachman on his 
box, from which it would direct the impulsions of the 
brain by the aid of the reins ! But this was not what 
was said by the admirable Descartes who, finding life 
too short for what he desired to do — you will find this 
in the ‘Life of Saint-Evremond, ’ by Des Moizeaux 
— wanted to prolong it for hundreds of years, yes, 
hundreds, and who would have found the secret, if — 
if he had not died at fifty-two. Ah! the grain of 
sand! the grain of sand! The unexpected! I fear 
only the grain of sand, you see, Marthe! The acci- 
dent that lies in wait for us in the darkness! The 
tortoise that falls upon our skulls while we are rest- 
ing like the sleeping poet! I fear only that — that 
and the men of brain, the chaffers, the skeptics — this 
is what the great Descartes intended to say, and what 
he does say in many passages: all our organs are 
double, the impressions that come from them to the 
brain are double, and yet we have only a single and 
simple thought of one thing at one time. Therefore 
there must be some place where the two images that 
arrive through the two eyes — or, if you choose, the 
235 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


two other impressions that come from a single object 
by the double organs of the other senses, you under- 
stand — where these two images may meet in one, in 
order that they may reach the soul, in order that they 
may not represent to it two objects instead of one — 
‘ There is no other place in the body where they could 
be so united as they are in this gland/ On the 
whole, according to Descartes, this odd cerebral or- 
gan is absolutely adapted for uniting and fusing the 
double impressions — and also in directing them by 
the nerve tubes as nervous influx — animal spirits — 
toward such or such a point of the brain where the 
conscious impression will be made. I tell you this 
to show you the importance attached by this very 
great man to this rudimentary organ. Willis and 
Stenow — in spite of the evidence — made merry at the 
expense of Descartes. One could not help laughing. 
The seat of the soul! The seat of the soul! They 
called attention to the fact that the gland was small 
in the man who has a great soul, and — oh ! oh ! some- 
times, not always — and large in the ox that has a 
small one. Besides, the Cartesians denied animals 
a soul, in which they, too, were imbeciles! But how 
Galien or Descartes may have erred, matters little to 
me. They verified, that is the important point. And 
I, too, I will prove that the gland is there, the eye 
is there — ” 


236 


THE THIRD EYE 


He touched his wife’s forehead with his finger. 

“Our very remote ancestors had this eye which 
has, as it were, closed in the course of time! It is 
the atavic eye of the mollusk bequeathed by the in- 
vertebrates to the vertebrates, and which man has 
allowed to be atrophied. I have studied, dissected 
saurians, lizards. Well, the ball of that eye really 
does issue through a hole in the skull. And it is a 
genuine eye. There is a retina, a crystalline, a mass 
of vitreous humor; the epidermis forms the cornea. 
It is the eye of the cephalopod, it is the eye of the 
frog, and it is the human eye. The hole in the skull 
through which the pineal nerve issued is found saved 
in an interparietal bone which I have encountered 
in fossil saurians, and nothing, nothing prevents my 
believing that this atrophied eye might be developed 
and resume its place in life where it was formerly, 
where it must be, where it will be to-morrow.” 

“To-morrow!” 

Jean Klipper seemed to see before him a new man- 
kind, provided with that frontal lantern to guide 
itself into the darkness of the unknown. Who could 
know what the triple vision might add to the knowl- 
edge of man! 

“Oh! I know, the aesthetes will say that it is not 
beautiful! The eye of the Cyclops! They will pro- 
test in the name of beauty ! Beauty ! What is 
237 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


beauty? And utility? Is that nothing? Is it not 
life itself?” 

Besides, he cared little what others might think. 
His object was first the welfare of the worshiped 
woman whom he was subjecting to his experiments; 
it was sight restored to the blind, the living eye 
substituted for the two dead ones. This martyr 
drawn from the torture of darkness and restored to 
light by this scientific miracle. 

“Miracle? Mirage, perhaps,” he said to himself, 
in his hours of despondency. “I am sure of being 
right, but shall I be able to reach this truth?” 

Days passed, long days when, under the scorching 
rays, before the machine casting its light full on her 
forehead, Marthe remained almost motionless, dream- 
ing — feeling like a gimlet the fire entering there in 
the skull, hoping and repeating : 

“Let us go on! You will find it! You will re- 
store my sight!” 

“And if I impair your health in the attempt?” 

“I never feel as well as after I have been under 
the flame. ’ * 

“If I sliould not succeed?” 

“You will succeed. It seems as if it were your 
lips which rest upon my brow, and that this light 
which bestows its kiss, is you.” 

Thus they intoxicated each other with chimeras, 
238 


THE THIRD EYE 


encouraging each other in their dreams, moving in 
the same vision in a community of effort, patience, 
and love. 

“You are right,' ' repeated Klipper; “it is neces- 
sary to believe. And I do believe. If I had only 
the illusion, the mere illusion of giving you sight, 
if death should take me this evening, suddenly, I 
should die happy! Ah! perhaps the real light, the 
star of our night is but an illusion!" 

He recurred a little, according to his custom, to 
this persistently-pursued problem when he had left 
Andre and joined Marthe in the apartment. 

He sat down in an armchair, looking through the 
panes of the lofty windows at the gray walls, the 
gray sky, the other side of the courtyard, the Palais. 
He loved this peaceful comer of the city, fancied 
himself at Versailles, or farther away in these win- 
ter days in some part of the North. There were such 
views of old palaces of the time of Louis XIV in 
Strassburg, at Saverne, but those were red — or gray 
in the Vosges. And he dreamed, while Marthe gave 
old Anna the orders for the evening meal. 

“It is strange," he said, after a long, thoughtful 
silence, “the artist's psychosis — this very peculiar 
case interests me. The man is handsome, talented, 
and he suffers. I should like to cure him of his 
trouble. There is no other way than the one Char- 
239 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


din indicated: to give him the persuasion that he is 
cured — prove to him that he is cured. How? In 
the Middle Ages, my dear Marthe, the unfortunate 
man would have been regarded as possessed. They 
would have seen in this psycho-neurosis the clutch 
of the Evil One, the signum diaboli. And it is a 
sort of Sosia.” 

And giving Moliere a slight Alsatian accent, the 
scientist scanned like music the lines of “Amphy- 
trion ’ * : 

“A man of honor am I, my word I pledge, 

And I beg you, sir, to believe me. 

I tell you, — supposing there was but one Sosia, 

I found two of us in our house, 

And of these two selves, both jealous of each other, 

One is now indoors and the other with us.” 

‘‘The two selves! Sosia! This devil of a Moliere, 
who scorned physicians, had divined what medicine 
ought to study: the dividing of the personality. 
That doesn’t surprise you, Marthe? Only, he at- 
tributed to the intervention of the gods, to the Lord 
Jupiter, what we attribute to neurosis — but it’s 
curious, this double self of the good Sosia!” 

And returning to his: 

“Yes, I should like to cure that man!” he shook 
his head, seeking some ingenious method. 

“How? Ah! how! Neither bromide of potassium 
240 


THE THIRD EYE 


nor sodium will conquer this abnormal mentality ! I 
don’t know what treatment a physician would order, 
seclusion, silence, injections of salted water into an 
artery. That isn’t it! That isn’t it! 

“There is a certain Dr. Dubois at Berne, who has 
seen clearly into such cases, For psychic ailment, 
psychic treatment, he has said, even written. It is 
through reasoning, conversation, persuasion, that he 
reaches the real self of the patient. 

“By Jove, if this Monsieur Fortis were forbidden 
wine and cigars, and condemned to the cell, the phan- 
tom would not be driven away. It would require — 
it would require — ” 


VII 


M ALEBRAN CHE’S LEG OF MUTTON 

“Do you know the story of Malebranche ’s leg of 
mutton, Marthe? The Cartesian was a little crazy, 
but this other Christian Plato had genius. When he 
read Descartes for the first time, he had palpitation 
of the heart, and almost died of joy. Yes! yes! yes! 
Perhaps that is the way to admire. Such disciples 
become masters — and Malebranche had his manias. 
He never drank anything but water, declaring that 
hydraulic treatment is necessary for our organism, 
and it alone is normal. But the eccentric fellow also 
had hallucinations. It seems — I don’t warrant the 
fact, but it is probable — it seems that he imagined he 
had at the end of his nose, yes, hung to his nose, a 
leg of mutton — ” 

“A leg of mutton?” 

“A leg of mutton.” 

“As the heroes of Perrault’s tale had a black-pud- 
ding in the same place?” said Marthe, laughing. 

“Exactly. The poor man thought he saw there, 
before his eyes, this leg of mutton which hung down 
242 


MALEBRANCHE’S LEG OF MUTTON 

heavily, interposed between his paper and himself, 
so that he could neither read nor write. The leg of 
mutton, the imaginary leg of mutton, cut his sentence 
in two, hid the one he had commenced. You can 
understand the torture, the suffering of this perpet- 
ual hallucination. ‘But you have nothing at the end 
of your nose,’ the poor deformed genius was told. 
Now the official scientists would say, ‘You have noth- 
ing there! No leg of mutton! Not a sign of a leg 
of mutton ! ' ‘But I see it ; I see it ; it is there, there ! ’ 
And the crazy philosopher was dragging with him 
this phantom, this specter of a leg of mutton — when 
one day an Oratorian, who invented auto suggestion 
at that moment, without knowing it, had an excellent 
and very simple idea. But it is the simple things 
that are excellent. He said to Malebranche: ‘I am 
going to cure you!’ ‘How?’ ‘By removing your leg 
of mutton. Oh! it’s a very simple operation and 
will cause you little pain. A small incision there, 
very, very slight, at the tip of the nose!' ‘Operate, 
go to work, cut/ said Malebranche, ‘but rid me of 
this leg of mutton!' ‘Ill choose my time, don't 
worry, ' said the Oratorian. And one day, while 
worthy Nicolas Malebranche was sleeping near the 
fire, the Oratorian who, by the way, my dear Marthe, 
had also foretold anaesthesia, and operations per- 
formed during slumber, the Oratorian, who had pre- 
243 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


pared the stage effect and brought a leg of mutton 
concealed under his coat, made a little cut with a 
knife on the end of the monomaniac’s nose. Male- 
branche woke with a start, and cried out: ‘Who is 
there ? ’ The Oratorian answered : ‘ I, who have just 

performed a little surgical operation and rid you of 
your leg of mutton.’ ‘My leg of mutton?’ ‘Here it 
is!’ And the Oratorian waved, as a hunter would 
a hare, the little leg of mutton he had prepared. 
‘My leg of mutton!’ said Malebranche. ‘Yes, and I 
took advantage of your sleep to hurt you as little as 
possible, and you were so near the fire that your leg 
of mutton was a little cooked. We shall be able to 
eat it!’ ‘With pleasure,’ said Malebranche. He ut- 
tered a sigh of relief and returned to his papers 
without ever being heard to speak of the leg of mut- 
ton again. The hallucination was dispelled. It had 
been proved to Malebranche that the phantom was no 
longer there! The leg might not have been good, 
but he must have found it delicious. To devour the 
specter that haunts you is the Carib eating his enemy. 
Well, what I should like — how am I to succeed in it? 
— what I should like to do is to repeat upon Andre 
Fortis the experiment of Malebranche ’s leg of mut- 
ton! To give him the proof that the phantom is no 
longer there, that the false Sosia, who persecutes and 
cudgels, is driven away and cudgeled in his turn. 

244 


MALEBRANCHE’S LEG OF MUTTON 


Here is another little problem of psychopathy to add 
to all those I wish to resolve. Oh! it is less difficult 
than the one which is to me the most important of 
all! I shall find it! I shall find it!” 

“You will find everything you desire,” replied the 
caressing voice of the woman-child, whose whole being 
turned toward the scientist like the believer toward 
God. 

While Klipper was speaking, Marthe had softly 
knelt on a stool near him, lifting her face, whose 
sightless eyes seemed to read, divine all the tender- 
ness which Jean Klipper ’s large ardent ones lavished 
upon this beloved unfortunate creature. He said 
softly, as if thanking her for so much faith, good- 
ness, and devotion: 

“Dear little great soul!” 

And in the twilight stealing through the lofty win- 
dow, among the books in plain bindings which the 
dusk was gradually concealing, this woman kneeling 
beside this man with long white hair, gaunt, thought- 
ful, muffled in his black overcoat, would have given 
the idea of some penitent prostrated before the sign 
of the priest. 

But the almost paternal gesture of the scientist’s 
hand caressing Marthe ’s drooping brow brought to 
mind all the human tenderness of the being devoted 
to another human being, and Jean Klipper, looking at 
245 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


the houses on the opposite side of the great court- 
yard, which were gradually vanishing in the gray 
twilight, said gently: 

“ People have often tried to define happiness. 
Happiness is labor near a beloved woman who under- 
stands you — quiet, continuous labor, with one sole 
object in view. And what an object ! To restore the 
worshipped woman to the light. ’ ’ 

“Don’t be selfish, Jean,” she replied. “There is 
also — Malebranche ! 9 9 

Marthe was smiling. 

“Oh! he, Andre Fortis, I will restore him, also, to 
himself ! I am seeking, pursuing, two lights at once : 
one for your eyes, and one for his brain. And the 
hardest to make shine is the one there, under this 
forehead!” 

He bent toward her, gave her a kiss on the exact 
spot where the jet of electricity, swift as a short- 
circuit, had set its mark and, shaking his head, added : 

“Up to the present time you are stigmatized by 
science — that is all — my poor darling ! 9 ’ 

“And those who are stigmatized work miracles, it 
is said. But the miracle- worker will be you — you, my 
love, my master, my God!” 


VIII 


THE OTHER’S MASTERPIECE 

Through the window of the house in the Rue 
Murillo, Andre Fortis’s wife was gazing at the dreary 
scene of a winter day shrouding the Park Monceau. 
The weather was snowy, the trees powdered with 
flakes beneath a gray sky. The marble statues were 
edged with a cold white wadding. The roofs of the 
boulevard in the distance were covered with hoar 
frost — an atmosphere of desolation and death. 

How many times had Cecile watched these same 
houses, these same trees, that half-seen monument of 
Gounod, yonder among the cold plants, hidden under 
their covering of straw! It was her only view, the 
corner of the universe where she fixed her thoughts 
and which, from the heart of this luxurious house — 
so empty to her — seemed like an opening from prison. 

Andre was working up above in his studio, finish- 
ing a canvas into which he was putting, he told her, 
all his ardor. 

Andre! Which Andre? The fascinating man 
whom she had met at Trouville, the lover who had 
17 247 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


borne her away one evening in her bridal robes, 
whiter than the snow through which pierced the tops 
of the grass blades on the lawns, or The Other, the 
wild-eyed stranger who appeared at certain hours 
and seemed to set upon a beloved face the mask of a 
madman ? 

What work was occupying the artist who, by turns, 
produced dreamy woodland scenes, Venetian canals 
full of light, and at the same time strange hecatombs, 
savage mythological visions, compositions of gloomy, 
terrible, incomprehensible mysticism? 

Which Andre was she going to see presently come 
down to take his seat opposite to her at luncheon — 
or to fly, to disappear and return to the apartment 
without any distinct memory, a stranger to their com- 
mon life, gazing at her with wondering eyes ? 

She thought of Dr. Klipper, who had come to see 
her, and whom Fortis had consulted in his turn. The 
physician had given no sign of life since his visit, 
and she dared not ask Andre what he had prescribed. 
Besides, nothing in the artist’s acts or words, for 
some time, could make her dread another attack. He 
was seized with a sort of frenzy for work, was finish- 
ing, he said, a large landscape for the Salon. Not in 
the hope of a great medal, or any decoration what- 
ever, he cared little for them. He was working for 
himself, it was his joy. 


248 


THE OTHER'S MASTERPIECE 


And, by an affectation wholly new in him, who 
willingly showed his wife his draughts and sketches, 
consulted her about the effect sought, he insisted on 
keeping secret this canvas which he considered a de- 
cisive work. 

“When it is finished,” he answered Cecile, “it will 
be my masterpiece ; let me seek until the last moment 
to make it one!” 

It was on this “masterpiece,” dreamed of by all 
artists, who so often fall exhausted from the height 
of their vision, that Andre was working in his studio, 
while Cecile was gazing at the mournful gray hue 
of this January sky, the white leprosy of yonder 
roofs, the snow clinging to the angles of the neigh- 
boring balconies, the edges of the windows. She let 
her thoughts wander, wander very far away, lose 
themselves in this dreariness of hopeless skies. 

The noise of the door opened behind her made her 
turn her head. 

It was Aurele, Andre’s valet. He held out on a 
tray a card to Cecile. 

“Madame, a gentleman, who said he did not wish 
to speak to my master, but to you.” 

Cecile took the card : “Petrus Hardy . ’ 9 She knew 
the artist well. She admired his portraits, and was 
aware that he was fond of Andre. Yet it was to her 
that he wished to speak. What could it be? Her 
249 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


instinct did not deceive her. There was some menace 
in the air, and it concerned Andre. 

‘ 1 Show Monsieur Hardy into the drawing-room.” 

Cecile instinctively cast one last glance at the park 
buried under the snow and, hearing the door of the 
drawing-room open to admit Petrus Hardy, she en- 
tered, bowed to the painter, "who seemed slightly em- 
barrassed, and motioned to him to sit down. 

He thanked her and, looking round him as if he 
feared a sudden visitor, said: 

“ Monsieur Fortis is not in, Madame?” 

“He is in his studio.” 

“Safely? He cannot hear us?” 

‘ 1 No, sir, ’ ’ replied Cecile, alarmed. 4 ‘ But of course 
he may come down — ” 

“I am going to tell you very quickly the matter in 
question. You will pardon me, I hope. My pro- 
ceeding is singular, even painful — to me — to you. 
But the affair concerns a great artist, his renown, his 
name. You will forgive me — ” 

“Yes, yes, certainly,” answered Cecile, becoming 
nervous. “But what is it, sir? What is it?” 

“Madame, as you doubtless know, we are prepar- 
ing the exhibition of the Salon du Cercle. Our var- 
nishing day will be especially crowded this year. We 
have works from some masters who send nothing to 
the Champs Elysees, and we had requested Andre 
250 


THE OTHER'S MASTERPIECE 


Fortis to let us have a set of his last studies in Venice 
— his masterpieces. To see once more, on his canvases, 
the fallen Campanile, was a joy and a consolation/’ 

4 4 Well?” said Cecile. 

4 4 Well, Madame, what your husband sends us is not 
a series of impressions of Venice; it is a painting 
which has greatly amazed us all.” 

In a rapid vision, the remembrance of the strange 
canvas seen one day on the easel in Andre’s studio 
returned to Cecile ’s mind — the terrible apparition of 
the 4 4 Golden Calf” rolling his chariot over the 
crushed bodies. 

4 4 What is the picture?” she asked. 

4 4 Good Heavens, Madame, if it were any other 
artist than Fortis, the canvas might pass for a wager, 
one of those pistol shots fired in the Salon to collect 
a crowd ; for Fortis, it would be thought an attempt 
to create an uproar, a scandal.” 

4 4 But what else?” 

4 4 Imagine, Madame, an automobile launched in the 
midst of darkness upon a crowd. Two huge gleam- 
ing eyes, a tremendous machine and, under the rub- 
ber-tired wheels, a regular human pulp. Women and 
children crushed. Blood, brains ! The most horrible 
of spectacles. And beneath this picture, in red let- 
ters on the frame, these words : 4 Modern High Life. ’ 

There is talent in it, of course, much talent — but, 

251 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


what shall I say? A talent that seems the result of 
a hallucination. Turner had these visions at the end 
of his life, and you know that, at that time, Turner — 
I beg your pardon — ” 

Petrus Hardy stopped, looking at Madame Fortis, 
whose face expressed acute suffering. Then, his 
gloved fingers mechanically polishing the hat he was 
holding on his knees : 

“We are greatly embarrassed, you understand. 
The committee will refuse to exhibit a canvas which 
seems like an intentional protest against many of our 
fellow members of the club, members of the Automo- 
bile Club — ‘Modem High Life,’ the title shows it — 
and which, besides, as a piece of work is gaudy, sen- 
sational, sinister, with its wounds, its broken limbs, 
its pools of blood. Before sending to Monsieur For- 
tis a refusal that will annoy him, I thought, Madame, 
of speaking semi-officially to her who is specially 
interested in the success, the glory of a master whom 
we all love. 

“What would be disagreeable, stated by a com- 
mittee, will become very simple if the decision, trans- 
lated by you, becomes a cordial warning, one of those 
counsels which women, better than anyone else, un- 
derstand how to give us when we are uneasy, when 
we doubt ourselves, which happens to all of us.” 

Cecile was convinced that Petrus Hardy and the 
252 


THE OTHER'S MASTERPIECE 


committee were right. She remembered too well the 
painful impression she had experienced when stand- 
ing before that other canvas which had since dis- 
appeared from the studio. But she could not give 
Andre the advice of which Petrus Hardy spoke, since 
she did not know the picture. 

c ‘ I could tell him only what you yourself tell me. ’ ’ 
“What, Madame, has not Monsieur Fortis showed 
you — ” 

“My husband doubtless feared that my impression 
would exceed yours and then, you know, he does not 
take my advice about all his pictures/ ’ she said very 
quickly, to explain her ignorance of such a work, to 
prevent this visitor from suspecting that two dis- 
tinct beings were as if incarnated in the same body, 
two different painters of almost hostile tendencies 
encased in the same exterior. 

“You could see the picture at the club. Will you 
do us the honor of coming this very day?” 

“Yes, I will go there. But I trust to you. I 
know that my husband is beset by certain cares of 
a social character — I thank you for having given me 
your opinion, your advice as a friend — ” 

“And admirer. But not a word of my step to 
Monsieur Fortis, I beg you. He might attribute it 
to some attack of jealousy on my part, and I am 
jealous only of his fame!” 

253 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Cecile had but one thought — to go to the club and 
judge the truth of Petrus Hardy’s anxiety. The pic- 
ture, whose dimensions were unusual for a club exhi- 
bition, was faced to the wall, among other canvases 
not yet hung. Petrus, who was waiting for Madame 
Fortis, gave the order to turn it and Cecile, at the 
horror of the sight, uttered a cry. 

It was the sinister vision of the “Golden Calf,” 
but even more exaggerated and aggravated, one of 
those apparitions a la Chifflart — still more apocalyptic 
— in which an appetite for horror, an accumulation of 
dismal details gave the impression of a hallucination 
of murder. The giant automobile, a sort of fiery 
dragon, red, red with blood, darting with huge, round 
eyes upon the piled-up corpses, and the capital let- 
ters “Modern High Life” traced in vermilion on 
the frame, added a savage irony to this vision of 
horror. 

“You know,” said Petrus to Madame Fortis, who 
stood motionless, hypnotized with terror before her 
husband’s canvas, “what Dick, the caricaturist, has 
christened the picture — which he unfortunately saw? 

‘ The Apotheosis of Squashing ! ’ ” 

Cecile, distracted, answered: 

“You are right. This picture must not come be- 
fore the eyes of the public. Keep it, hide it. I don ’t 
know how I shall induce my husband to destroy it! 
254 


THE OTHER'S MASTERPIECE 


But it is a dream of a sick man. I don’t wish, I 
cannot see that ! I cannot ! ’ 9 

She turned away from the horrible vision. She 
was in haste to leave this ground-floor room, where 
they had banished the immense frame. She would 
tell Andre all; and, leaving the club where this “ Mod- 
ern High Life” remained, she wondered, on her way 
back to the house in the Rue Murillo, whom she would 
find at home, the man whom she loved or the man 
she feared, the creator of so many landscapes sat- 
urated with the soul of things or the author of that 
repulsive vision which seemed like a phantasmagoria 
of Callot seen through a window of the Morgue? 
Andre, or he who took the name of Andre? He or 
The Other? 

It was Andre who welcomed her at the threshold 
of the apartment, Andre smiling, loving, asking her: 

“Where did you come from ? Why did you go out? 
I have been taking a walk in the park. I had worked 
too much — my head ached — ” 

At first Cecile tried to evade. She had been to 
see her parents. 

“Ah! How is your father?” 

“Well.” 

“And your mother?” 

“She is well, too.” 

“We don’t see them often.” 

255 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“That is the way of life. The young go with the 
young. And then my father is always afraid of dis- 
turbing you. A soldier, he respects orders : you shut 
yourself up — ” 

She was talking for the sake of talking, giving or 
seeking a reason for going out, but she did not know 
how to lie. She saw that the man who was listening, 
questioning her, was really her conscious husband, the 
great artist whose name she bore. 

Ceeile was unwilling to wait ; even though he should 
suffer, she would tell him all. And she ventured to 
do so. Yes, down at the club, there was a picture 
signed Andre Fortis which, if exhibited, would cause 
a scandal. 

“A picture of mine? I have sent nothing! Noth- 
ing ! What is it ? ” 

At the first words of description Ceeile uttered, a 
cry of despairing anguish escaped the artist’s lips. 

* * The automobile ! The iron monster ! I know ! 
I have seen it ! ” 

And in fact, he was again seeing the bloody canvas, 
the scarlet canvas which he had hesitated to destroy, 
the horror realized by The Other’s brush. 

“Oh! it is enough to drive one mad!” he said 
wrathfully. 

Everywhere, always, inevitably, like a shadow de- 
taching itself from him, he found this stranger, this 
256 


THE OTHER'S MASTERPIECE 


being, sharing his life, or rather imposing his own 
life upon him — forcing him to countersign acts of 
which he was ignorant, works which he detested — this 
1 ‘ double’ ’ bearing the same name, living within him 
— this detestable and detested Other, whose prisoner 
he was, and whose accomplice he was now becoming. 

“ Responsible for his insults, responsible for his 
works — and to say to myself that this being made of 
flesh and blood — yes, my poor Cecile, made of my 
flesh and blood, is not impalpable, but indiscernible, 
that he exists, since he acts, produces, since he is my- 
self, and if to rid myself of him, I should put a bullet 
in his head, I should kill myself. No, it is absurd, 
it is maddening, it is incredible. And it is true! 
This arm is his, this hand, my own, is his! This 
brain I share with him! Yes, beneath this skull I 
have, as it were, a half brain, whose other half is 
another’s! Oh! there is enough of this, you see! 
Really, too much! And once more I ask your for- 
giveness for having associated your life with that of 
this half madman. Forgive, forgive! Forgive!” 

Cecile had often heard this word, this cry of des- 
peration. And she forgave without effort, since she 
loved, her very love for the unfortunate man in- 
creasing in her pity. 

She soothed him. She proved to him that this fresh 
manifestation of the dividing of his life would injure 
257 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


neither his reputation nor even his health. How had 
this picture been sent to the club? Andre doubtless 
had had it sent while in the “second state/ ’ He re- 
membered but vaguely the aura of a last attack, 
which undoubtedly had lasted only a short time. 
Flashes of light, a constriction around the skull, and 
he had certainly lost the consciousness of his Ego. 
For how much time ? He did not know. Long 
enough, at least, to have summoned some porters and 
sent the picture to the President of the Art Commit- 
tee of the club. Aurele, the valet, remembered 
perfectly having seen some men carrying away in 
a van a large frame which his master was watch- 
ing. He even seemed very anxious and repeated to 
the men : 

“Take care of the frame! The frame is as im- 
portant as the picture, on account of the inscrip- 
tion/ ? 

Andre had no recollection of all this. Instead of 
those pools of blood painted upon an apocalyptic can- 
vas, he might, with fingers that had become a mur- 
derer’s, have shed human blood, for which he would 
have been no more responsible. 

“I cannot, I cannot live in this way any longer! 
Let Dr. Klipper condemn me to exile, to confinement, 
to solitude, to silence, to everything which relieves 
or cures lunatics, I submit in advance to his orders — 
258 


THE OTHER'S MASTERPIECE 


but there is too much of visions and horrors, too much. 
This is no longer living, I would rather die!” 

Cecile answered gently: 

“We will see Dr. Jean Klipper.” 


IX 


TO KILL THE OTHER 

“You would rather die? I understand that if you 
were compelled to submit to the law of others! It’s 
unbearable — imbossible — imbossible — ” 

It was Dr. Klipper who, in his office in the Rue 
de Valois, was coldly, imperturbably answering For- 
tis, who was relating his last ordeal and repeating 
what he had said to Cecile. Madame Fortis had ac- 
companied her husband to the doctor’s, and was 
seated near the window, looking at the little blind 
woman with the loving smile, who was standing near 
the scientist’s armchair, her elbow resting on the 
back, suggesting the idea of some guardian angel. 

“You can no longer live in the company of The 
Other, exposed to the tyranny of The Other? That 
is perfectly natural — very natural. Well, here it is,” 
said the little thin man, darting his fiery gaze at 
Andre, “there must be an end to The Other — it is 
necessary to kill him!” 

“To kill him?” 

“That’s all.” 


260 


TO KILL THE OTHER 


“I don’t understand,” said Fortis. 

“Yet it is clear. You are, you yourself recognize 
it, haunted by a singular being who, like an unex- 
pected guest, takes possession of your identity when 
you least suspect it? Well! Expel him! And as 
the most thorough form of expulsion is death, kill 
him!” 

“I have often thought of dying,” replied Fortis 
with an expression of suffering that made Cecil© 
shiver. 

The little man moved restlessly in his armchair 
and shook his long white hair. 

“I’m not talking about you, ’ ’ he said bluntly ; “ I ’m 
talking about the man you call The Other and who 
has a name — ” 

“A name?” 

“Certainly. Imbue yourself thoroughly with the 
idea that this being, this ‘subliminal,’ has a distinct 
existence in you, living in your brain as a worm 
would live in your bowels, and it is through you that 
he must be attacked. He must be killed to permit 
you to live. Come,” said Klipper, “until now you 
have felt, endured him without giving him a name. 
He is, pardon the word, a moral bothriocephalic. He 
has been to you a sort of specter, a mirage, an in- 
visible wayfarer — The Other! Let us incarnate thia 
Other in a being who will henceforth appear to you 
261 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


under the features of a man who will perhaps re- 
semble you, but who will no longer be you ! Look at 
me steadily — ” 

And Klipper thrust, like two streams of the electric 
light domesticated by him in his cellar, the fire of his 
eyes upon Andre ’s ; he dictated to him his will, hypno- 
tized him by those flames, compelled him to believe in 
this apparently absurd, in reality consoling sugges- 
tion, so fully did he saturate with his orders this 
troubled brain. 

“Yes, look at me. The being who hitherto has 
shared your existence and, as it were, poisoned it, 
is not called Andre Fortis ; his name is Andre 
David. ’ y 

“Andre David !” stammered Fortis. 

Imperatively, like the very embodiment of will, 
the strange little man said questioningly : 

“David, listen to me carefully, David, and answer 
me. Da-vid (he emphasized each syllable), Andre, 
is this really one of your Christian names ? ’ * 

“Yes,” replied Andre, “ Andre-Pierre-David.” 

“Well, he has taken one of your Christian names, as 
he has taken your last name, and this Andre David, 
the day he disappeared, would restore full liberty to 
Andre-David Fortis, the real Fortis, who is yourself. 
Do you understand fully?” 

“Yes,” Andre repeated. 

262 


TO KILL THE OTHER 


The Alsatian had taken the artist’s feverish hands 
in his own thin ones, and was almost crushing the 
fingers by the pressure. 

With a tremendous tension of the brain, he was 
forcing into the young man’s mind this almost in- 
sane idea — and, trembling from head to foot, Cecile 
watched these two, so unlike, seated opposite to 
each other, and who seemed, face to face, less a physi- 
cian and a patient than two adversaries measuring 
each other for a duel. What eyes, what a will — the 
absolute will of Klipper dictating to Fortis this 
startling idea that an Andre David lived with him, 
and the far weaker will of Fortis, conquered, besides, 
by the scientist’s gaze, bending, accepting this fan- 
tastic revelation, absurd if his reason could have 
spoken. 

But there was no longer either free will or reason : 
Klipper was commanding, Klipper was hypnotizing, 
Klipper was evoking before Andre’s imagination a 
real being who, suddenly, to the artist was also be- 
coming as much alive as the passers-by whom he 
elbowed on the street. It was no longer The Other , 
it was now Andre David, Andre David, and the mere 
fact of giving a name to this hitherto invisible, in- 
tangible being, restored to Andre a portion of his 
freedom of mind. 

It seemed as if this Andre David was now a sort of 
18 263 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 

adversary whom he could combat, a parasite whom he 
could drive away. 

“The day when it will be proved to you that this 
Andre David is dead,” asked Klipper, imposing by 
the magnetism of his eyes the answer and the belief 
in Fortis, “you will believe yourself free?” 

“Yes, certainly, yes,” said Andre, with a stifled 
voice. 

“You will feel released from every fear?” 

“Yes, Doctor, yes, but if he should live forever? 
If he keeps on living?” 

“It is only Nature that lives forever, because she 
fattens upon ourselves. No person lives forever!” 

Cecile felt a sudden terror at hearing these tragical 
words, coldly uttered, and Dr. Klipper, with the fair 
young woman at his side, now, by a singular trans- 
figuration, produced the effect of some terrible wizard 
having evoked a “spirit” standing by him. And it 
seemed to her — though this Andre might be, in a man- 
ner, only a phantom — it seemed to her as if the 
scientist was speaking with a terrifying impassive- 
ness of the suppression, the slaughter of a living be- 
ing, of a real murder. 

She did not understand, and yet she had, with a 
bewildered confidence, the vague instinct that An- 
dre’s recovery would result from this extraordinary 
conversation, and heard with joy Klipper — toward 
264 


TO KILL THE OTHER 


whom Marthe was bending her face full of rapturous 
admiration — repeat : 

4 ‘You will master this Andre David. Yes, yes, I 
promise you, on the word of Klipper. But first of 
all you are fully convinced that he exists? Are you 
not!” 

“Yes,” said Andre. 

‘ ‘ Look at me again. Look at me. Better than that. 
You believe it? You believe me?” 

“Yes,” Andre repeated more firmly. 

“Well! We will dismiss him once for all. And 
if you ever feel again — listen to me carefully, do not 
forget a word of what I am going to say to you — if 
you feel, by any warning whatever, that this man, the 
Intruder, the Guest, the Enemy, threatens to resume 
possession of your being, at the moment you feel the 
mere breath of his presence, or the scratch of his claw 
— take the first bit of paper at hand, and with pen or 
pencil, trace the simple words: ‘He is there V then 
send me the information by Madame Fortis. ’ ’ 

He had turned toward Cecile who was listening, 
chilled, as if the words dictated had marked some 
terrible sentence. 

“You will forget nothing ? — He is there ! — and 
watch! This is my only prescription! Now, go and 
come as you please, bum or don’t burn the works 
that Andre David wishes to exhibit under your name ; 

265 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


that matters little. The important thing is to know 
whether he will return or not. You are to be on the 
watch. You alone can warn me of his possible pres- 
ence. When you have told me: He is there , I will 
act. ’ ’ 

“But, Doctor — ” 

One last time Jean Klipper darted his gaze, burn- 
ing as a ray of light into Andre ’s eyes ; one last time 
his curt, energetic voice repeated: 

“You have comprehended enough? You will 
obey ! ’ ’ 

Andre, conquered, dominated, hypnotized, went out 
of the apartment as if molded by the master’s will, 
and Cecile, entering the coupe waiting in the Rue 
Valois, was completely astonished to find again a 
little Parisian life — passers-by, fashionable women — - 
after having spent an hour with a sort of magician, 
a wizard of another day. 

She still saw, beneath the long white hair, the glow- 
ing eyes of this man fixed upon the dreamy, velvety, 
bewildered, obedient ones of Andre Fortis. 

And the artist had no sooner left Klipper ’s draw- 
ing-room than the old doctor, rubbing his dry hands, 
said: 

“My dear Marthe, there is a cure which will not 
lead me to the Institute, thank Heaven, but which 
will be curious! Very curious. Extraordinary. 

266 


TO KILL THE OTHER 


That man is now convinced of the reality of this 
Andre David. He is going to see him in flesh and 
blood. He is under suggestion, he will believe in this 
phantom’s tangible life. He might now be told that 
the specter has no normal existence, he would answer 
that people were deceiving themselves or deceiving 
him! Well! if I can prove to him that this Andre 
David is dead — ” 

The Alsatian stopped, suddenly breaking into his 
short laugh. 

‘ 4 Well! Well! But really, my little Marthe, to 
kill a man, even when that man does not exist, is 
perhaps a case of conscience! Has one the right to 
destroy even a phantom?” 

He was amusing himself in putting the question. 

1 1 Pshaw! room for the living — and so much the 
worse for the victims.” 

Then, passing his fingers over the young woman’s 
stigmatized brow: 

“But this is something about which I am far more 
concerned than the second existence of Andre Fortis! 
Your life, my poor beloved Marthe! Your life! 
Your health! Your light!” 

Then, with the somewhat fevered haste of the miner 
rushing to the placer, or the artist who is summoned 
by his unfinished work : 

“Let us go to the laboratory,” he said. “It seems 
267 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


as if the bones were separating under my hand, and 
we were approaching the goal ! * ’ 

“Yes, perhaps so,” answered the docile voice of 
the resigned wife, as usual. 

They quietly descended the broad stone staircase, 
then the narrow winding one to the cellar and, seated 
in her customary place, motionless, Marthe Klipper 
submitted her forehead to the light streaming from 
the machine, which struck it exactly in the center like 
the blow of a stiletto. 

The scientist’s struggle against the impossible con- 
tinued in the subterranean laboratory where the physi- 
cian, full of hope, moved to and fro like a Magian, 
and where the patient remained motionless under the 
jet of the rays, like a martyr. 


X 


THE DEATH-STRUGGLE OF ANDRE DAVID 

Life was resuming its course with Andre and Cecile, 
the usual life, the ordinary life, the happy life. 

The artist had shut up in the darkness of the attic 
the sinister picture, compromising to his name, which, 
wrapped in serge, concealed, invisible, Petrus Hardy 
had had brought back by the employes of the club. 
And he had begun his work again as if no storm had 
passed over his existence. 

To see him alert and smiling, to hear him talking 
about everything, like a well-informed and agreeable 
Parisian, no one, not even Cecile herself, would have 
suspected that this favored being, charming and al- 
most merry, had endured such trials, bore within him 
a blemish. Man has such a faculty of forgetfulness 
during these brief halting places, to which he gives 
the name of happiness, that he loses the memory of 
what he has borne, experienced, suffered. The cloud 
passes. The weather is clear. It seems to him that 
it has always been fine. 

It was fine weather in the apartment on the Rue 
269 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Murillo, fine in the hearts of these “ married lovers/’ 
fine in the park sleeping beneath their eyes. Cecile, 
still a little anxious, sometimes went up softly toward 
the studio where Andre was shut in, listened for any 
sound that might cause her uneasiness. No, Andre 
was working quietly. Sometimes he was even sing- 
ing, wholly escaped from his sufferings. 

Then she knocked at the door : 

“It is I.” 

“Come in.” 

She looked at the work commenced. Sunrises on 
the lagoon, twilights beneath the trees of Fontaine- 
bleau, visions of a poet and artist. 

“Are you pleased with me? I think this has some- 
thing good in it,” he said, showing his canvases. 

All the talent of Andre Fortis was shining in these 
masterly works. 

It seemed as if he had become forever, himself, de- 
livered from the terror of the past. 

The mere fact that Dr. Klipper had personified, in- 
carnated in a definite person the sort of phantom that 
had harassed Andre, gave the artist the sense of re- 
lease. 

It was no longer The Other — that is, another self — 
it was a living and acting individual, who was perse- 
cuting and substituting himself for him. No longer 
a sort of anonymous shadow, but an enemy, having in 
270 


THE DEATH-STRUGGLE OF ANDRfi DAVID 


a certain degree a civil status, a stranger whom 
Klipper had christened by his real name: Andre 
David. 

And through a suggestion, each day more powerful, 
this Andre David had assumed form to Andre Portis 
and was making the impression upon him, not of a 
troublesome guest, but of some living contemporary 
far away from him, with his own life, not mingling 
with his. A sort of bore, who had been driven away 
and retired nobody knew where. 

The important point was that he should never re- 
appear and, since the old Alsatian had, through his 
will, given or rather imposed this explanation accepted 
by Andre as final, the artist felt strangely relieved, 
certain that if this Andre David should again enter 
his existence, Jean Klipper would have weapons to 
drive him away. 

What weapons? That was the doctor’s secret. 
Fortis did not analyze, did not investigate. He be- 
lieved. Besides, had he occasion even to think of 
Klipper ’s advice, since this Andre David had finally 
disappeared ? 

He had not disappeared. The preliminary dazzling 
light, the unexpected flash before the cerebral storm, 
passed before Andre’s eyes one evening, during din- 
ner, under the lamp, and Cecile saw her husband sud- 
denly turn pale. 


271 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“What is the matter ?” 

“Nothing — or rather yes,” said Andre, still con- 
scious of his own personality; ‘ ‘yes, there is ‘some- 
thing the matter.’ A warning — it is He!” 

“He?” 

She was terrified, Andre ’s eyes were looking at some 
object that she did not perceive. 

“I see you as if you were enveloped with light; I 
can see only half your head, in a halo — it is The 
Other — the warning — he is coming. Do you remem- 
ber what Klipper said?” 

Andre’s voice had already changed. It was dull, 
choked, as if some invisible hand had clutched the 
young man by the throat. 

“Write to Klipper, write,” he said in a quick tone. 

Cecile, who had already risen from her chair, ran 
to her room, and returning very speedily, held out 
to Andre a pencil and pad. On the first loose sheet 
he scrawled, with a jerking movement, the summons 
dictated by Klipper: 

“He is there!” 

Then, with a short laugh, he added his signature, 
saying to the terrified Cecile : 

“Let us use my name while I am still myself!” 

Aurele entered, bringing the coffee. 

‘ ‘ Take it away, ’ ’ said Cecile ; ‘ ‘ your master is ill. ’ ’ 

“Do you want anything, sir?” 

272 


THE DEATH-STRUGGLE OF ANDRE DAVID 


Fortis was already fixing upon the servant eyes 
that evidently saw something else beyond him. 

1 1 No, thank you ! ’ ’ 

Cecile wanted to be alone with Andre. 

“Do you feel better ?” 

He stood before her, without answering. 

She recognized, beheld again the expression of the 
face. It was the mask, the countenance of The Other. 

“What?” he asked, as if he had not heard. 

Oh! the terrible apparition of that frightful wed- 
ding night! Andre, poor Andre was again as she 
had seen him before her in that tragic hour, forbid- 
ding, startling. The ( ‘ passer-by” was taking posses- 
sion of him. He was going to become again — for how 
long — the nameless being whom the doctor had chris- 
tened, personified in “Andre David.” 

She begged the unfortunate man to go to his room ; 
she took his arm while he still retained a little con- 
scious will, and went up the stairs with him until the 
moment when, on the steps, Andre abruptly broke 
away, exclaiming in a rude tone: “Let me go! I 
want to be alone!” 

It was no longer Andre Fortis who uttered this 
(t let me go,” but the robber of his personality. And 
this one, The Other, had rapidly gone up to his studio ; 
he ran swiftly up the flight of stairs leading to it, 
and when Cecile, following rapidly, reached the door, 
273 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


she found it closed and heard Andre with a violent 
movement push the bolt inside. 

Then she felt that emotion of infinite terror in- 
spired by a closed door behind which, in despair or 
anger, some loved one barricades himself. What is 
happening behind the wooden plank that separates 
us from the person whom we call? The impossibility 
of talking, explaining, entreating, goes to the brain, 
blows upon us like a blast of horror. A drama may 
be going on there, which must be endured in anguish 
and impotence. 

Cecile beat with her clenched fists, repeating the 
beloved name : ‘ ‘ Andre, Andre ! ’ ’ 

How could Andre have answered ? If he heard, he 
did not understand. That voice could rouse no emo- 
tion in him. Cecile was no longer his wife. He was 
abruptly living another life, and doubtless, seated be- 
fore his easel, seized with that fever of savagely sym- 
bolical painting which caused him to produce the 
‘‘Golden Calf” or “Modem High Life,” was again 
dashing some fresh horror upon the canvas. 

‘ ‘ Andre ! Andre ! It is I, Andre ! ’ * 

And, as only the silence of the closed studio an- 
swered her cries of agony, she suddenly thought of 
J ean Klipper and the despairing summons that Andre 
had just signed with his name. 

The old physician, must be informed. She told 
274 


THE DEATH-STRUGGLE OF ANDRE DAVID 

Aurele to watch his master, follow him if he went 
out, and rushed to the apartment in the Place de 
Valois. 

“ I expected you,” said Klipper. “An attack, 
sooner or later, was inevitable. I’ve made my plan 
of battle. Yes, yes, we will master the Evil One, as 
people used to say in old times!” 

His plan was very simple. The point was to sup- 
press this Double that haunted Fortis. 

“An old story,” said Klipper. “We believe we 
have invented something. The subliminal ! The sec- 
ond state. The Egyptians knew that. It is old, old 
as the hills ! ’ ’ 

He had at first believed that the mere suggestion 
would be sufficient to deliver Andre from his suffer- 
ing. But the certainty of being subject to so much 
distress was so deeply fixed in the artist’s brain that 
it was perhaps impossible to tear it out by the power 
of the will. 

Klipper had found another method. He would sup- 
press Andre Fortis ’s normal life to give him the sen- 
sation of being reborn into a new existence freed from 
all servitude of terror. He would force into the sick 
man’s mind the conviction that he was released, for- 
ever released from his specter. 

And Cecile might be happy. She would no longer 
know the horror of the unknown. 

275 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


What he had imperatively dictated to Fortis re- 
cently, he repeated to Cecile with the calmness of 
certainty. 

“We shall master this specter .’ 9 
“Ah ! Doctor, how I would bless you ! ’ 9 
“Oh ! you would have no cause to bless me, Madame. 
What would be the use of science — which is so small 
a thing — if it were not to do a little good ? ’ ’ 

But Klipper waited until the new attack which had 
just seized Andre had passed away, in order to act. 


XI 


EXPERIMENTS 

The artist shut himself up in his studio, lived there 
in a desperate persistence in work to be accomplished, 
rang for Aurele, took his meals there, did not go out, 
appeared to be a prey to a mania for toil that troubled 
Cecile. 

She went almost constantly to Klipper, whom she 
found with Marthe, the ever loyal guardian angel 
whose soul divined and watched. 

“I am alarmed/ * she said. “This fever for work 
frightens me. If he should be ill ! ’ ’ 

An odd smile appeared on the little man’s thin face. 
“Who knows?” replied Klipper. “Perhaps that 
might be an excellent thing ! ’ ’ 

He rubbed his bony fingers together and his glow- 
ing eyes seemed gazing into the distance at something 
invisible to Cecile — an unknown object, a vision. 

“The sick,” he said, “are cured. He might per- 
haps come out of typhoid fever delivered ! ’ ’ 

This possibility of such a peril — a dangerous illness 
— thus assuming to the doctor a form of hope, so 
277 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


bewildered Cecile that she wondered if Klipper was 
really in his right mind. 

“Fear nothing, Madame. Your husband will find 
in his very over-excitement, the strength to resist such 
an ordeal, and while Andre David — since we have 
called him that — is working, Andre Fortis is resting. 
You will inform me when the latter regains his per- 
sonality. Then I will interpose.” 

“And what will you do, Doctor ?” 

“The most trifling thing. You will see!” 

“What I am seeking, ’ ’ he added, motioning toward 
Marthe, pale and thoughtful, with the red brand on 
her brow, “is difficult in a different way! And yet, 
I shall succeed, I shall succeed! We can do whatever 
we will. We do whatever we will. Unless accident, 
the unexpected — which destroys all our plans, over- 
throws our card-houses — should appear ! I fear noth- 
ing in life except the unexpected, the atom, the dust, 
the grain of sand!” 

Then, putting aside his personal anxiety and his 
dream, he went on: 

“But, as for your husband, Madame, I am sure of 
succeeding! You know that his case is not unique? 
A famous engraver recently exhibited drawings, pas- 
tels, executed, he said, by a medium who directed his 
hand. All Paris was talking about it. People at- 
tributed to spiritualism what was an easily-explained 
278 


EXPERIMENTS 


cerebral phenomenon. There is no spiritualism ! 
There is the human brain which can imagine every- 
thing, and believe everything! Yes, yes, yes, I will 
aim at Andre Fortis’s brain! You will take charge 
of his heart !” 

Andre went down again one morning from his 
studio where — condemned to his second personality, 
he had lived and slept for days — taking up again his 
ordinary life at the exact point where he left it. It 
seemed as if nothing had interrupted his normal ex- 
istence. At luncheon, the conversation with Cecile 
seemed the very continuation of the remarks inter- 
rupted by the attack. Andre asked about the health 
of General and Madame de Jandrieu — they were 
spending the winter at Pau — spoke of his landscapes 
for the next Salon, of Parisian news, of a piece played 
the evening before, an. account of which he had just 
read. 

“We will go and see this play by Hervieu. I de- 
light in his art.” 

“Whenever you like,” replied Cecile. 

Nothing could have aroused a suspicion that there 
had been an interruption of nearly a week between 
the last meal taken together and this one. 

Aurele, unmoved, served the coffee now as he had 
served it the other day. 

Andre perhaps did not even remember that he had 
19 279 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


written to Klipper, dashed off like a cry of terror, 
scrawled the words: “He is there!” 

He was there no longer, and the artist forgot the 
attack, enjoyed life without even wishing to think 
and, instinctively, his brain experienced the sensa- 
tion of comfort that convalescence bestows. 

‘ ‘ I should be perfectly happy, ’ ’ he said, “if it were 
spring. I long for woodland scenes painted from 
Nature in April .’ ’ 

He was looking through the window at the damp 
Park Monceau, under the gray February sky, with 
the melted snow, and the mournful white monument 
of Gounod. 

“In April, we will go to Ville d’Avray, and I will 
evoke, if I can, Papa Corot by the shore of the pond. ’ ’ 

Cecile now remembered Klipper ’s direction. When 
Fortis recovered his personality, the doctor must be 
informed, and the doctor would act. Andre was 
again in his normal condition. So the hour had come 
to try the experiment of which the Alsatian scientist 
had spoken without explaining, and which was to 
ensure the cure. 

“He said so, Jean Klipper! He asserted it!” 

She recalled his positive words: “I have formed 
my plan of battle.” She had the most complete, ab- 
solute confidence in this singular man, who at one 
time had frightened her. “Andre cured, cured by 
280 


EXPERIMENTS 


Klipper ! 9 ’ And then how many happy years lay be- 
fore them! 

She went directly to the Place de Valois, and told 
Klipper that the artist no longer even remembered 
having had a fresh attack; if the doctor wished, he 
could cure him now. 

“Yes, yes,” Klipper repeated. 

He seemed constrained, a little annoyed. He was 
obliged to interrupt for a few days the experiments 
he was making upon Marthe. Interrupt them at the 
hour when, perhaps, under the rays of light, the ex- 
pected opening, the enchantment, the miracle, was 
about to be produced. 

Marthe really did feel in her forehead a sensation 
of cracking under the burn. One might have said 
that iron fingers were parting the bones in her skull. 
She, too, possessed the ardent faith that Jean Klipper 
had in the success of his work. With her dead eyes, 
which perceived no glimmer of light, she had the feel- 
ing, the illusion of catching a glimpse of an unex- 
pected gleam. Was not the pain in her forehead — 
who could tell — a sort of birth from which would 
come forth, emerge, the hidden eye which the heat 
was opening? 

She believed it. She said : 

“I am hoping!” 

And Klipper answered : 

281 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“ I am sure of it!” 

This certainty changed into pious attentions the 
torture he was inflicting on his young wife, suffering 
under the motionless waiting beneath the burning jet 
which was corroding, almost penetrating the skull. 

But he was sure, yes, sure of success, sure of this 
triumphal discovery : man become a Cyclops, the 
power of sight of humanity increased one-third! 

A shy recluse shunning patients, he felt a sort of 
anger at interrupting, even for a few hours, the pur- 
suit of his dream to busy himself with a stranger, a 
case which seemed commonplace and of little im- 
portance compared with the astounding problem he 
desired to solve. But he had promised. He had said 
toCecile: 4 * Come.” She came. He would obey the 
summons. 

“Let us go and see your husband,” he said. 


XII 


THE RECOVERY 

Cecile’s carriage was waiting in the Rue de 
Valois. It rapidly conveyed the doctor to the Rue 
Murillo, and Andre was a little surprised, though not 
annoyed, to see Jean Klipper arrive. He felt a re- 
spectful affection for this man, whom he found inter- 
esting from the intellectual standpoint, and artistic- 
ally very handsome. Some day he would ask permis- 
sion to paint his portrait. “I make figures, too,” he 
said, smiling, no longer even remembering the wild 
symbolical paintings that had proceeded from his 
brush. 

Klipper, on entering Andre’s studio— it was there 
Cecile took the physician — went straight to his object, 
and taking from his long coat a shabby old pocket- 
book, drew from it a scrap of paper which he pre- 
sented to Fortis as a creditor would unfold a bill pay- 
able to bearer. 

“Do you recognize this?” 

Andre took the paper. It was his own handwrit- 
ing. Three words : He is there! 

283 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Cecile was alarmed at seeing him turn slightly 
pale. 

“Yes,” he said, “I called you!” 

“Well?” asked Klipper. 

Andre did not seem to understand what was wanted 
of him. He remembered having traced those words a 
few days before, as he would have uttered a cry of 
alarm. But everything which had followed disap- 
peared to him in a dense fog. He recalled nothing. 
Even of the suspension of his normal life he retained 
no memory, no impression. It had been as if sup- 
pressed. He did not even realize that open paren- 
thesis between the moment when he wrote to Klipper : 
“He is there!” and the one when Klipper appeared, 
paper in hand. 

The physician questioned, tried to awake Andre’s 
memory of one of his thoughts and, at least, acts dur- 
ing the second state ; again Andre could recall noth- 
ing. 

“Yet you have lived a new phase of that existence 
which overlies yours,” said Jean Klipper. “And 
Andre David has resumed possession of this body 
which you share with him.” 

The old Alsatian gave his words a sort of sacerdotal 
solemnity, and Andre had the impression of being in 
the presence of some Magian speaking quite naturally 
284 


THE RECOVERY 

of the strangest phenomena, familiar, however, to him. 

But, most of all, the artist felt rising within him a 
fierce wrath at the idea that The Other, the parasite, 
the adversary, the moral tapeworm, had made this 
offensive return, had again taken possession of his 
being — and without his even knowing it. 

“This time,” said Klipper slowly, “it must be 
ended. ’ ’ 

“With joy, oh! with joy!” cried Andre. 

Klipper ’s burning eyes, magnetically imperative — 
those eyes of the visionary which rested on Marthe’s 
brow and studied the stars — those deep eyes were bent 
upon those of Andre Fortis, enveloping them with 
light. 

“A surgeon might have an operation to perform 
upon you, ’ 9 he said, in the voice whose imperious tone 
was emphasized by the Alsatian accent. “You would 
allow yourself to be put to sleep? Yes, if it were 
appendicitis, which is the fashion, or some tumor — 
you would give your body up wholly to the surgeon ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Andre, looking at Cecile who, stand- 
ing before him, was trying to smile, or rather, was 
smiling, feeling ready to faint. 

“Well,” Klipper went on, “I am a surgeon of 
another sort. I wish to suppress, for a short time, 
this personality of yours, of which another robs you 
285 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


for hours, that I may strengthen and consolidate it 
forever. I want to drive away this thief of your 
soul, this robber of your reason, the other Andre. 
Andre David !” 

“The Other!” Fortis once more repeated. 

Then deliberately he added: 

“What is to be doner’ 

“Submit to an operation like any other. You trust 
me!” 

“Certainly I trust you, Doctor!” 

“Body and soul?” 

“Body and soul. Yes, do with me what you choose, 
provided that this specter no longer tortures me; 
everything that may seem to you necessary, even 
though it should be dangerous, everything.” 

Cecile, motionless, maintained her tragical silence. 
It seemed to her that these two men were discussing 
a question of the life or death of one of them. 

“Is it necessary for you to work just at present?” 
asked Klipper. 

“I wanted to commence my picture for the Salon, 
but it does not much matter — ” 

“You will go to it later with more pleasure. I 
ask, I require of you the abandonment of a few days 
of your life.” 

Seeing Andre’s eyes questioning him, he added 
more definitely: 


286 


THE RECOVERY 


“This attack, independent of your will — the inter- 
ruption of your normal life — I will cause myself. 
And, when the attack has passed, there will no longer 
be an Andre David — The Other will be sup- 
pressed, driven away forever. Forever, I will take 
my oath.” 

“Agreed,” said Andre Fortis. 

Dr. Klipper motioned the artist toward a big 
leather-covered armchair with a high back, near the 
bay window of the studio. 

“Sit down there!” 

Andre obeyed. 

The scientist laid his thin hand on Fortis ’s chest. 

“No palpitations!” 

He took the artist’s left wrist, and put his thumb 
on it. 

“The pulse is regular. You are a brave fellow!” 

“Why shouldn’t I be brave? You are there.” 

“No heart trouble. Very good,” said the physi- 
cian. 

In the light from outside, this man with the long 
white hair standing near the large armchair in which 
Andre sat against it, resembled those doctors who 
emerge from the depths of Rembrandt’s dark can- 
vases. Cecile was now gazing at him with a sort of 
terror, as if the scientist was about to commence some 
sinister, formidable work. 

287 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


He had drawn from his pocket a phial with a 
ground-glass stopper, which he held a moment in his 
thin fingers, and poured upon his handkerchief a few 
drops that he raised to Andre’s nostrils. 

“Chloroform,” he said. “Nothing more simple.” 

He kept the handkerchief forcibly in its place, 
compelling the artist to inhale the evaporations and, 
at the same time, consulting the young man’s pulse, 
his thumb upon the artery. 

Andre ’s eyes, at first open as if fixed with curiosity 
upon the doctor, gradually closed ; the anaesthetic was 
doing its work, and the patient’s handsome head 
leaned against the back of the chair, the face pale, 
the lips raising the dark mustache in a sort of rap- 
turous smile, while the body, languidly outstretched, 
assumed an attitude of relaxation, gradually becom- 
ing motionless as in sleep or death. 

Jean Klipper was now bending over Andre’s chest, 
listening to the beating of the heart, his fingers still 
applied to the wrist. 

Andre, his eyes closed, no longer seemed to breathe. 

“Good Heavens, Doctor,” said Cecile, “you are 
very sure — there is no danger?” 

“None, Madame; the inhalation was quick; he is 
under the influence of the anaesthetic.” 

“Does he hear?” 

“No. Perhaps he is dreaming. If he is, so much 

288 


THE RECOVERY 


the better. I had thought of giving him hasheesh, 
but one is not master of the mad visions of the 
Madjoum, the green paste. With chloroform or 
ether, it is sleep. We are masters of the awaken- 
ing.” 

“Now,” the little man added, “he must be carried 
to bed.” 

Cecile pressed an electric button. 

“Do what the doctor orders you,” she said to 
Aurele. 

Klipper desired Andre to be undressed. The sen- 
sation that he would experience on waking in bed, 
with his head on a pillow, would be more vivid. 

The valet, assisted by the porter, carried the sleep- 
ing Andre down to the apartment. Cecile followed 
with an aching heart on seeing the two men descend- 
ing the staircase step by step, carrying the body 
which seemed like a corpse. 

“This is frightful,” she said. 

But the Alsatian, smiling, repeated : 

“Nothing, it is nothing. You will see!” 

Undressed, carried to his bed, Andre Fortis, under 
the tapestry tester, seemed even more than before to 
be sleeping the last sleep. The bony framework of 
his forehead shone upon the pillow with the white- 
ness of a winding sheet. And the closed eyes, the 
half-open mouth, the enigmatic smile, full of the be - 
289 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


yond, as if, with the last sigh, he had seen a supreme 
vision. 

“I am afraid,” Cecile repeated in a very low tone; 
“I am afraid.” 

“Why, no; put your mind at rest. You will see 
to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“Merciful Heavens! are you going to leave him so 
until to-morrow?” 

“No, no. But to-morrow I will renew the experi- 
ment, and to-morrow evening Andre David will no 
longer exist. A pleasant journey to him!” 

And while the young wife went nearer to the bed 
where Andre Fortis was still sleeping, he said: 

“Nothing is more useful than anaesthesia, chloro- 
forming, etherizing, to draw from the body its moral 
secret. Conscripts pretend to be hunchbacked; they 
are put to sleep; their simulated hump disappears. 
Madmen who cannot be cured are submitted to chloro- 
form. They grow quiet, and their reason may return. 
Maniacs who persist in sullen silence are etherized, 
and they talk. Criminals confess ; those who are 
feigning insanity betray themselves. Truth issues, 
not from a well, but from our phials. And you will 
see, you will see to-morrow.” 

“To-morrow?” 

“To-morrow I shall bring to your husband the 
proof of his deliverance. I have told you about 
290 


THE RECOVERY 


Malebranche ’s leg of mutton, I think. No? Well, I 
will tell you. ’ ’ , 

He remained beside Andre until the effects of the 
opiate passed off, and when the artist, astonished, 
found himself lying in his bed, seeking, in the chaos 
of his first confused impressions, how he could awake 
there, with a strange sensation of emptiness in his 
brain, Dr. Klipper quickly reassured him. 

“You are not ill, Monsieur Fortis, but you are sub- 
jected until to-morrow to a very special regimen, not 
painful. I need to have you sleep, sleep for a long 
time. During your slumber, I will work for you. 
You know the proverb: happiness comes while we are 
sleeping. One must not always believe in proverbs. 
But sometimes they are truths.’ ’ 

Andre listened, amazed, his mind a little astray, as 
if in a dream. 

“Your husband will be able to eat and drink what 
he likes until to-morrow,” added Klipper, giving Ce- 
cile a prescription he had just written on a leaf torn 
from his notebook. “But I desire that he should take 
half a glass of this potion every two hours.” 

“Which is — ” asked Andre. 

“Oh! nothing serious! A sedative, a composing 
draught. Then, my dear sir, I’ll come back to-mor- 
row! From now until to-morrow, stay in bed! Rest 
is the best medicine!” 


291 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“Stay in bed without being ill?” 

“Stay in bed in order to be ill no longer!” said 
the doctor, smiling. “Good-by until to-morrow!” 

Cecile, a little anxious, and not fully understand- 
ing, followed him to the door of the house. 

But the strange little man, shrugging his shoulders, 
did not even let her express her fears. 

“I tell you, Madame, that this experiment is neces- 
sary. I need a few bewildered hours in that head 
which sleep is going to soothe. The potion I am or- 
dering will continue the state of somnolence which I 
require. The thought, the settled idea, the terror of 
the Double will sleep at the same time, and to-mor- 
row — ” 

This word, constantly repeated, seemed tragical to 
Cecile, full of mingled fears and hopes. 

“To-morrow, Doctor!” 

“Well, to-morrow you will see, you will see!” 

And Jean Klipper went back to the Place de Va- 
lois, where Marthe, little accustomed to seeing him 
go out, was waiting for him. 


XIII 


MORTUARY LETTER 

“ Science is amusing,” said Dr. Klipper that even- 
ing at dinner to his blind wife, whose mind saw, actu- 
ally saw what the master’s words evoked before her; 
“amusing, confess it. To pursue at the same time 
the solution of two problems, one gigantic, the other 
curious, paradoxical, and solve them both at once. It 
is exciting!” 

“Then,” asked Marthe, “Monsieur Fortis?” 

“Will be cured to-morrow! Fallen asleep as when, 
after a child is born, we present it to the mother and 
she smiles, I will bring him deliverance and he will be 
happy.” 

“And I?” said the young wife. 

“You! — I am on the eve of success! I feel that 
soon, dear heart, I shall no longer torture you, and 
you will see, see the vast universe . 9 ’ 

1 1 Strassburg ! 9 9 gently interrupted the old Alsatian 
Anna, who was serving the dinner. 

And, nodding gravely at the tone of entreaty, Jean 
Klipper answered: 


293 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“ Strassburg ! ” 

To the old woman, this was the ‘ 1 real world.’ ’ To 
Klipper, it was the native place. 

“You will no longer suffer,” he repeated. 

“I do not suffer!” 

“Your forehead?” 

“Gives me no pain!” 

Klipper ’s piercing eyes seemed to be seeking in the 
center of the burn which marked the spot where the 
rays of his machine converged, the fissure through 
which the fantastic eye, the complementary eye, the 
unexpected eye, the third eye, the eye forgotten by 
Mother Nature, was to appear. His faith in his dis- 
covery was such that, in a sort of hallucinatory cer- 
tainty, it seemed as if he saw in Marthe ’s brow an eye 
emerge, a light around which the sloughs of the burns 
formed a sort of red halo. 

“To-morrow,” he said to the young wife, as he 
had just said to Cecile. “To-morrow we shall see 
again, my beloved Marthe ! And it would be strange 
if to-morrow I should solve the two problems at 
once.” 

A smile which he did not notice passed over 
Marthe ’s lips, a smile at first sorrowful, as if sad- 
dened by a doubt, then radiant, full of joy, as if after 
having thought, “I have waited so long for this to- 
morrow,” she was thinking: “Since he says that the 
294 


MORTUARY LETTER 


day has come, the day has come, a Jean Klipper is 
not deceived.” 

The next morning, the physician went to Fortis 
with what he called salvation in his pocket. 

“Yes! A positive remedy!” he said to Marthe. 

“Which is — V 9 she asked. 

“Oh! the most commonplace thing in the world. 
A scrap of paper. I have it with my phial of chloro- 
form ! 9 9 

A scrap of paper! Marthe did not even ask for 
any explanations, leaving Klipper to his plans, which 
she trustingly admired. But Andre and Cecile had 
the same absolute faith in the little man with the 
burning eyes. 

The physician found Fortis in bed as he had or- 
dered, but a little impatient, tired of staying there. 
The face of the artist on the pillow brightened when 
he saw the scientist. 

“I don’t ask you how you are,” said the latter. 
“You are looking splendidly.” 

“And I’m crazy to go out, to move around. It 
seems as if I am a prisoner.” 

“Exactly. A prisoner who will be released to- 
day. ’ ’ 

Cecile had accompanied Klipper to her husband’s 
bedside. She felt an anxious joy at seeing a flame of 
hope, of ardent hope pass into Andre’s eyes. That 
20 295 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


word release had completely illuminated the thin face, 
still wasted by so much uneasiness which, on the pil- 
low, resembled the emaciated countenance of a dying 
man. 

Ah ! if at last — at last — r Jean Klipper wrought this 
miracle of restoring to the unfortunate man the abso- 
lute feeling of his sole personality! Release! Re- 
lease ! The word rang in Andre ’s ears like a chime 
of festal bells. 

4 * To-day V’ he asked again, like a captive who 
thinks he hears the bolt of his cell slip — for the last 
time. 

4 4 To-day I will give you the proof that Andre 
David — ” 

“The Other—?” 

“The Other is no longer to be feared and will never 
return. Never , never more, as Poe says, but this time 
the refrain is consoling. ’ ’ 

He had drawn from his pocket the phial he had 
already used the evening before and, asking Ceeile for. 
a handkerchief, wet the cambric with a few drops, 
poured, counted one by one — then, leaning over the 
bed, he quickly placed on Andre’s lips, beneath his 
nostrils, the linen saturated with chloroform. 

And, with burning eyes fixed upon the face of the 
young man, who was again gradually, slowly, lapsing 
into slumber, he held his wrist, counted the pulse, and 
296 


MORTUARY LETTER 


said as if he would have driven the words one by one 
into Andre’s ears: 

“You know? This Andre, the persecutor, the 
enemy, Andre David? He is ill, very ill! He is 
dying!” 

Andre Fortis’s lips, under the handkerchief which 
compressed them, murmured vague words, repeated, 
but stammeringly, those uttered by Klipper: “111 — • 
ill — dy — ing , 9 9 and the wild eyes seemed to be seeking 
in the dim light of the recess some unknown thing, a 
phantom. 

It seemed to him, while he was falling asleep, as if 
he were sinking slowly, gently, with a soft, gliding 
movement, into space, into darkness, among shadows, 
which were suddenly pervaded by strange sonorous 
sounds — heard before and which he abruptly recog- 
nized — the Satanic voices of “Manfred,” that “Man- 
fred” which, for the first time, had shaken his nerves, 
made this phantom appear, evoked The Other. 

And with these distant echoes of Schumann min- 
gled a memory of the “Poet’s Life” by Charpentier, 
the sharp, sarcastic cries of madness or intoxication 
cutting short the bacchanalian finale, emphasizing 
the delirium and despair of the poet fallen from his 
dream, slain by the impotent doubt. And while the 
chloroform was doing its work, in the slumber caused 
by Klipper, Andre beheld, bending over him like an 
297 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


incubus, stifling him like Smarra, the face of Andre 
David, his ego, his second “ego,” fierce, haunting, 
whose jeering laugh resembled the sarcasms in the 
“Poet’s Life,” the diabolical ironies of “Manfred.” 

Then Andre Fortis had an eager desire to struggle, 
to start up, to drive away the specter, to stretch his 
arms toward him, try to seize him, sink his nails into 
his eyes — those harassing eyes that seemed to be star- 
ing at Andre lying there. And, as if Dr. Klipper had 
divined by an intuition of genius what was passing 
beneath this skull — deciphered the thought even 
through the bones — the old Alsatian repeated, slipped 
into the artist’s ear before sleep came, to give him 
this last sensation, this final affirmation : 

“All that you see is only a lie. You will know the 
real truth on awakening. Sleep, sleep, sleep! The 
evil dream is over, on the word of Klipper. You will 
see.” 

Then sleep rose, rose, like a beneficent tide ; and as 
the chloroform took effect Fortis felt a sense of quiet, 
of coolness in the commotion of confused hypnogagic 
images that danced before him, pallid as masks, and 
glittering like luminous atoms. 

Then the lashes drooped over the startled eyes 
which had become troubled and, under the action of 
the chloroform, Andre Fortis fell asleep. 

Then, when the anaesthesia was complete, the little 
298 


MORTUARY LETTER 


man shook his head with its long white hair, took 
from his overcoat pocket his shabby leather wallet 
and drew out a paper with a wide black border, a 
mourning letter, which he unfolded, read in a very 
low tone, and showed to frightened Cecile. 

The startled wife had seen Andre’s name on this 
funeral letter. 

She drew back in alarm and, pointing to the mourn- 
ful sheet, said in a choked voice : 

‘‘What is this?” 

“Oh! read it!” replied Klipper coldly. 

Cecile ’s trembling hand took the black-bordered 
letter the doctor held out to her and, with eyes dilated 
by terror, the young wife read these words printed 
under a black cross forming the heading and sur- 
rounding the M of the address: 

You are invited to be present at the funeral procession, service, 
and burial of 
Monsieur Andre David, 

Artist. 

Died January 20th, 1001, in his 32nd year. 

Which will take place the 22nd instant, at 1 o’clock precisely, 
at the church of Saint -Etienne-du-Mont, his parish. 

De Profundis! 

The letter at which Cecile was gazing in bewilder- 
ment contained also a list of relatives, to whose names 
she paid little heed, and this information : After the 
299 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


ceremony the body will be conveyed to Saint-Laurent- 
du-Pont, his birthplace. 

The poor wife, holding between her fingers the 
monming paper, questioned with her glance the sci- 
entist, whose eyes were now sparkling with a strange 
light, ironically joyous. 

“Here is safety,” said Klipper at last. “The 
persecutor is dead! When your husband has in his 
hands the proof that Andre David is dead, he will not 
fear the apparition of The Other. I am killing the 
phantom. No more phantom! And Andre Fortis 
will be able to live happily!” 

“Then,” said Cecile, who did not take her eyes 
from the letter, “it is you — ?” 

‘ ‘ I, who, to materialize the confidence which I desire 
to thrust into the brain of Andre Fortis, have imag- 
ined the death and burial of Andre David, the spec- 
ter, that Andre David who exists only in the imagina- 
tion of Andre Fortis and whom I am suppressing! 
But the most astonishing” — and the little man’s 
shaven face wore a sardonic smile — “the most curious 
thing, which proves that everything is possible and 
that everything happens, is that Andre Fortis will 
be able later, if he feels any doubt, to take the jour- 
ney to Saint-Laurent-du-Pont. He will there find the 
tomb of an Andre David, and be able to read the name 
on the stone, as you read it on the letter of announce- 
300 


MORTUARY LETTER 


ment. I wanted to leave nothing to chance. I have 
written, inquired, questioned. And I located this 
tomb of a dead man who at first was non-existent, only 
when I had given to me the very spot where your 
husband, if necessary, could read the name of this 
Andre David. Yes , yes, I stirred up some people 
whom I know in the Funeral Company — though I do 
not leave my cellar, I have my acquaintances, too, 
and the Funeral Companies and the doctors have 
their relations, of course. Yes, yes. They live by 
one another. They searched, searched, searched ! 
And in Dauphiny, the tomb of an Andre David, 
an artist — everything happens, everything is pos- 
sible — was found. He had just died. The mayor 
and the prefect certify it. And here it is! Aha! 
the scientists ! The scientists could also be nov- 
elists. And what is science, Madame ? A ro- 
mance !” 

Cecile listened, wondering if she were not dream- 
ing, if this was not a madman, who thus played with 
life and death, suppressing by anaesthesia a living 
being, erasing with a scratch of the pen, a fictitious 
letter, a being who did not exist. 

She gazed at Klipper in bewilderment, and yet had 
a very clear impression that the scientist was trying 
an experiment in psychotherapy and did not exceed 
his rights as a rescuer. 


301 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“It is by the mind that psychoneuroses are treated 
and cured,” he had often said. 

The tremendous trick of Andre David was for the 
doctor one of those mental methods which he had the 
right to employ. 

But if Andre, Andre when awake, once more con- 
scious, did not believe in the final disappearance, the 
death of the specter, the departure of The Other! 

There he was, in bed, sunk in slumber, and Klipper 
was waiting until the chloroform had finished its work 
to place before the artist’s eyes this proof, the evi- 
dence itself. 

The minutes seemed to Cecile ages, hours of in- 
finitely long torture, up to the moment when Andre 
again opened his eyes, came out of the slumber as if 
dazed, looked around him, trying to understand. 

He glanced from Klipper, seated near him, to Ce- 
cile, standing beside his bed, questioning without un- 
derstanding ; his ideas were floating, confused, in his 
mind. 

At last he said : 

“What is it? What has happened?” 

Cecile awaited, as if it were a sentence, the doc- 
tor’s reply. 

“Oh! something very important,” said Klipper 
slowly. 

A little startled, Andre Fortis exclaimed like a cry : 

302 


MORTUARY LETTER 


“What is it, then? What?” 

“WTiat? Why, yon are a happy mortal, my 
friend! Yonr enemy, your shadow, your double, you 
know — ” 

Andre looked by turns at his wife and the doctor. 

“Well, Doctor?” 

“Well! But to the point, read!” said Klipper, 
holding out to Andre, who raised himself in bed, the 
black-bordered letter that Cecile had just been hold- 
ing. 

And the husband’s question was the same as the 
wife ’s : 

‘ ‘ WTiat does this mean ? ’ ’ 

“Look.” 

Andre, in his turn, began to read the letter. He 
repeated aloud: 

“You are invited to be present at the funeral pro- 
cession, service, and burial of Monsieur Andre David, 
artist, died — ” 

Then, suddenly interrupting himself, springing, 
half clad, out of bed, “WTiat?” he said, in a great 
cry of surprise and almost of triumph; “Andre 
David? He? The Other ? — Dead?” 

“And buried,” said Klipper coldly. 

Cecile felt her heart beating like the iron weight of 
a clock. 

“Dead?” Andre Fortis repeated. 

303 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


He continued the reading of the letter, went over 
it again, examined the dates : 

“This is the 20th of February.” 

“The 20th of February, at twenty minutes past 
eleven in the morning,’’ said Klipper again. “The 
Other has rested for a month beneath the tombstone 
in his village! And you know the famous proverb: 
‘It is only the dead who do not return!’ A false 
proverb in politics, for the dead do return and call 
themselves martyrs.” 

“Andre David, artist, died January 20th, 1901, in 
his 32nd year,” again read Fortis, turned to Cecile, 
and said: 

“My age ! He was my age, as he had my face !” 

“Now,” said the Alsatian, jestingly, “he no 
longer has anything! You’ll never see him again! 
Ended! Hi! Smoke!” 

“Smoke!” 

“Or corruption. Think no more about it. You 
are free!” 

Andre Fortis, as if beset by those magnetic lines, 
returned to the black-bordered letter, and repeated, 
as if to engrave the words upon his brain, the 
name: 

“You are invited to he present at the funeral pro- 
cession, service, and burial of Monsieur Andre 
David — ” 


304 


MORTUARY LETTER 


“But why,” he said suddenly, ‘‘didn’t I know this 
a month ago?” 

Klipper, still keeping his quizzical expression, re- 
plied : 

‘ ‘ Remember ! This is not the first time that I have 
put you to sleep ! I will answer as in the Residuary 
Legatee: ‘It is your lethargy!’ The main point is 
that He is no longer here, He!” 

“The Other!” said Andre. 

He added: 

“At Saint-Laurent-du-Pont ! I saw that place 
once on my way to la Chartreuse! It is there he 
sleeps?” 

“And don’t go there either to wake him, or to 
thrust a sword into his heart as was done to the vam- 
pires,” said the doctor. “Peace to the dead, and life 
to the living ! ’ ’ 

He held out his thin hands to the young man, who 
pressed them with ardent emotion. 

“Well,” said the doctor, darting into Andre’s eyes 
a gaze almost as scorching as the sparks of his labora- 
tory, “will you believe me now ; will you feel that you 
are delivered?” 

“Yes,” replied Andre. 

“You are yourself! The Other has vanished! — 
come, kiss your wife! You will both be happy for- 
ever!” 


305 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“ Forever! Yes, I feel it, my darling! Forever !” 

He had rushed to Cecile and was holding her in his 
arms; he caressed her forehead with his hand, he 
kissed her closed lids, as he had done the night before 
their wedding. And it was indeed a new marriage 
that would begin, a life without terror, trusting, free, 
the life of the prisoner who sees before him the open 
sky, the clear road, space. 

“Oh! how I worship you, my Cecile !” 

“My dear Andre !” 

“And how I love you, too, Doctor, for having given 
me the strength to live ! ’ ’ 

“And the joy of seeing him buried, him !” 

Andre, who was radiant with delight, became seri- 
ous. 

“That is true,” he said; “all this joy is founded 
upon the death of The Other!” 

“Oh! don’t pity the dead,” said Dr. Klipper. 
“They are the travelers who have arrived. We still 
have to pursue our way. Let us do so like people who 
know the value of happiness. The fragments are 
rarer, and cost even more, than those of radium.” 

He was in haste to leave Andre and Cecile alone. 
He was also in haste to rejoin Marthe. Since he was 
lucky to-day, he wanted to carry his researches in the 
laboratory farther. 

“Now,” he said, “I will leave you to yourselves! 

306 


MORTUARY LETTER 


Be certain that never — yon hear, never — will The 
Other reappear! He sleeps and will sleep soundly. 
You are thoroughly convinced of it?” 

“Absolutely,” replied Andre, with a firmness of 
faith. 

“You no longer fear anything?” 

“Nothing,” said the artist again. 

His eyes never left the letter with its mourning 
border, from which — strange irony — beamed an im- 
pression of happy deliverance. 

With a clasp of the hand into which she put her 
whole soul, Cecile, in a fervent tone, thanked the doc- 
tor, whose smile emphasized this joy with a sort of 
irony, and asked: 

“Doctor, will you let me kiss you?” 

“With pleasure,” replied the Alsatian, turning his 
thin cheeks to meet the young wife’s lips. 

“You will carry this kiss to your dear Marthe — a 
saint!” said Cecile. 

She added in a tone so low that Andre could not 
hear: 

“And here, too, you have restored a human being 
to light!” 

Dr. Klipper put a finger on his lips : 

“I have killed a parasite, that is all,” he said. “It 
is my trade! But confess that it required patience, 
long search, and luck (the great collaborator, luck) 
307 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


to find in a distant cemetery a dead man who bore 
the name of the one whom I desired to banish, to 
banish forever. However, the real Andre David was 
not exactly the age of the Andre David in my letter 
of announcement ; he was much older. But mortuary 
letters are not expected to tell the whole truth. Co- 
quettish women do not frame their ages with a black 
border. The important thing is that there should be 
this name, Andre David, on the paper, Andre David 
yonder on the stone, and that Andre David should no 
longer reappear in the Rue Murillo! Farewell, Ma- 
dame !” 


XIV 


THE GRAIN OF SAND 

Dr. Klipper went out very joyously from this 
apartment, where he left Andre in the fullness of his 
confidence — The Other crushed, driven away, buried, 
already almost forgotten, like all the dead — and took 
a cab to return more quickly to the house in the Place 
de Valois, the cellar where his instruments awaited 
him. 

Luncheon was also waiting for him there. He ate 
heartily, humming old Strassburg airs learned in his 
childhood. Then he said to Marthe : 

i ‘It is a good day, I want to finish it! I have 
worked for others; I want to work for myself! For 
you, my darling! You are not tired ?” 

“No.” 

“Well! Perhaps Madame Fortis is right: I have 
restored her husband to light by confidence. Possi- 
bly to-day — this very day — I shall arrive at the result 
I covet for you ! For you ! Ah ! what a dream ! ’ ’ 

“And Monsieur Fortis is cured?” 

“Cured, because he believes. Cured, because I 
309 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


have slain, not the mandarin who makes him rich, but 
the phantom who made him doubt himself. Cured, 
because for one illusion I have substituted another. 
Ecco! And this is life ! Yet no, there is no illusion. 
Andre David, who, if he had not had his living life, 
would not have had a funeral, would not have a tomb 
in Saint-Laurent-du-Pont, really did exist, since im- 
agination created him! His life was a fact, since 
Andre Fortis suffered from it. His death is a fact, 
since the letter of announcement is there. Eequiescat! 
And henceforth reassured, strengthened, operated 
upon for his phantom Andre Fortis will live, as if 
from a cured cancer ! As you will live, you, dear one, 
with that new eye, that I want to see emerge from 
your forehead, yes, yes, to-day, Marthe, to-day, to- 
day!” 

He was growing excited, talking, gesticulating, and 
old Anna said to him, while serving the dessert : 

“Take care, sir; calm yourself; you will have a 
fever.” 

“Fever?” asked Marthe anxiously. 

“Yes, Madame, fever. Madame doesn’t see my 
master, but his ears are red, and he is getting con- 
gested — that isn’t good!” 

But Klipper interrupted the servant: 

“I am not red at all! Don’t believe it. ‘Madame 
does not see my master , Madame does not see! J Well! 

310 


THE GRAIN OF SAND 


Madame will see ! She will see me ! She will see us, 
Anna! She will see that my ears are not red. Ma- 
dame will see everything! And perhaps this very 
day! Yes, yes, to-day! to-day! I am lucky to-day! 
Good for to-day!” 

Klipper’s voice, like a bugler sounding the charge, 
gave the blind woman absolute confidence. Marthe 
was persuaded that she was approaching the end of 
that long trial, which led her daily beneath the pro- 
jection of the electric light as if under the stab of a 
fiery lance. She did not complain that she suffered, 
that she felt on her forehead the scorching wound. 
She obeyed, she hoped. The master had spoken. Yet 
it was an unexpected joy to hear Klipper talk of the 
end of the experiments, and to believe in speedy, per- 
haps immediate success. 

“We will go down to the laboratory,” he said. 

With unusual excitement he took a candle to light 
his way down the dark stairway, and held out his 
hand to Marthe. 

“Lean on me.” 

The blind wife, her hand in the doctor’s, went 
slowly down the steps leading to the cellar, whose 
door Klipper pushed open and, there, groping with 
her foot for the stone steps, she tried, with the fingers 
of her free hand, to touch the wall. Her other hand 
remained in Klipper’s. They walked on thus be- 
21 311 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


neath the vault whose damp odor guided Marthe, as 
she counted the stairs one by one, plunging into this 
darkness which, to her, was no blacker than the eter- 
nal night which surrounded her. 

Suddenly she felt a sensation of terrible cold. She 
felt Klipper’s hand release hers, heard a cry in the 
darkness, then a dull sound, the sound of a falling 
body. And nothing more. No, nothing, silence. 
Groping, she sought for the hand that was guiding 
her a moment before. She could find nothing. Va- 
cancy! 

She called: 

“Jean! Where are you, Jean?” 

Jean Klipper did not answer. Was it he who had 
just fallen several steps below her, and whose plunge 
she had heard? 

The sinister sound was still in her ears and on her 
heart. 

“Bang! Bang!” 

Oh! it was he, it was certainly he who, stumbling, 
had just fallen on the stone steps. Where was he? 
How could she help him? Marthe called again, but 
Klipper’s orders were rigid. No one must come near 
him when he was working. And no one came in an- 
swer to Marthe ’s cries. Were they even heard up 
above ? 

She bent down, slid along the stones, seated, from 
312 


THE GRAIN OF SAND 


step to step, questioning the gloom, seeking with her 
hand, groping for a prostrate body. 

The silence, the terrible silence, alarmed her. What 
if he were killed? The blind wife’s hands felt, 
sought as she lowered herself step by step toward the 
spot whence, just now, the stifled cry had come. Still 
empty space ! 

Yet, though he did not answer, he was there, in this 
darkness. 

“Jean! Jean!” 

A vague echo sent back, from the distance, the 
name shrieked in anguish, “Jean!” 

In her turn, she uttered a cry on meeting an ob- 
stacle under her feet, slipped toward another step. 
Bending forward, she groped with her hand. It was 
really a prostrate body. Klipper was doubtless lying 
there at the foot of the staircase, motionless. 

Marthe moved her fingers along the form, touched 
the shoulder, the head, the forehead, and started in 
horror. The hair that her fingers reached was sticky, 
as if from some warm fluid, blood! Blood was flow- 
ing from that worshiped brow, that august brow of 
the scientist. She felt it on her trembling hand, and 
screamed for help. A fearful thought came. 

“If he should be dead? He is dead!” 

Dead ! 

And in the darkness, the night to which she was 
313 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


condemned, the poor wife tried to lift the body, which 
was perhaps only a corpse. She sought with her lips 
the face she could not see, the ears in which she re- 
peated her despairing call : 

“Jean!” 

He did not stir. The body lay inert in the dark- 
ness. And she could not raise, relieve him. If Klip- 
per, thus stricken down, his forehead doubtless frac- 
tured, should die near her, she could not struggle for 
him with this awful death. 

Then the fragile creature, the little timid fair wife, 
found within herself an unexpected, superhuman en- 
ergy. Groping, she crept up the stairs again until 
she felt before her the door opening upon the ground- 
floor and, pushing it suddenly wide, she screamed, 
uttered a loud shriek of distress, which was heard by 
the janitor and also old Anna, who was just coming 
down. 

“Help! Help! The doctor is killed!” 

They ran to his assistance. Dr. Klipper, picked 
up at the foot of the stairway, was carried, bleeding, 
to his apartment. He was not dead. 

With his forehead fractured — his foot having 
slipped on some step — he was seriously injured. 
Marthe, anxious, condemned to darkness, questioned 
earnestly. She was encouraged. A neighboring phy- 
sician hurried in, and applied a first dressing. 

314 


THE GRAIN OF SAND 


He was a young man, who was acquainted with the 
work of the Strassburg physician and, when he saw 
him lying prostrate, said: 

* ‘ What a misfortune it would be ! ’ 1 

But Klipper recovered consciousness. At first he 
stammered a few words ; then he called Marthe. 

“Are you there, Marthe ?” 

“I am here, my love!” 

'Jean took her hand, the hand that he had loosed 
just now in falling. 

“What has happened to me?” 

Then, as he suddenly remembered: 

“Ah! yes, we were going to work.” Then sud- 
denly — “There is a fable of La Fontaine’s: The 
astrologer who let himself fall into a well. Yes, yes, 
we study the stars, the star! — and we stupidly fall 
into a cellar!” 

He seemed surprised to see a new face by his bed- 
side. 

“Who are you?” 

“One of your admirers, my dear Master,” replied 
the young doctor. 

“Ah! my admirers! My admirers are few! But 
when I shall have endowed mankind with the third 
eye! To-day, perhaps, to-day, Marthe!” 

He was becoming excited. The fever was rising. 

“Calm yourself, my dear Master!” 

315 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“No, no, to-day; I want my final experiment to 
take place to-day. You don’t believe in the third 
eye ? ’ 9 

“The pineal gland? Certainly, my dear Master. 
You will find it. If you seek, you will find!” 

An expression of intense pride illumined the sick 
man’s face. He saw himself understood, compre- 
hended by a man of the new generation. He said to 
Marthe : 

“You see, people have faith in me!” 

And she, the believer, raised the scientist’s thin 
hand to her lips and kissed it, as she would have done 
that of a prophet, or of her God. 

Then the wounded man grew sleepy and a sort of 
coma took possession of body and brain. The young 
physician grew uneasy, giving expression to his fears 
in the words he repeated, shaking his head: 

“It would be a pity!” 


XV 


DISAPPEARANCE 

A short paragraph in the newspaper, among vari- 
ous other facts, informed Andre and Cecile of the 
accident of which Dr. Klipper had been the victim. 
They went hurriedly to the Place de Valois. But no 
one was admitted to see the injured man. 

Only Marthe came to thank them, and Andre said 
to the poor wife: 

“He is the man who saved me! He will be saved 
in his turn.” 

The Fortises went daily to inquire for news. 
Sometimes it was alarming, sometimes reassuring. 
They did not know. A mystery was hovering over 
and around the sick man. 

Andre had the feeling that something was being 
concealed. 

This is what they were hiding: the fall on the 
stairs had caused a lesion in Flipper’s brain so 
that the light of reason which he had showed after 
regaining consciousness, was slowly darkened. A 
dense mist now enveloped that wonderful, penetrat- 
317 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


ing intelligence. The young physician, a distin- 
guished psychiatrist, had summoned the most skillful 
medical men. Their verdict gave no hope. The 
great Jean Klipper was doomed to progressive 
degeneration, destined to irrationality, worse than 
that, to be only a being leading a purely animal, 
brute life — like the idiots wandering about the 
courtyards of asylums. 

Then Marthe — who saw nothing, but demanded 
that she should be told everything — was not willing 
that any human eye should perceive this degrada- 
tion of a worshiped, venerated being — a great 
heart, a genius. And she hid from every visitor, 
every question, this wreck of humanity that she 
clasped in her arms and disputed with disease. He 
recovered, but reason did not return. 

And one day, when Andre Fortis went to the 
apartment in the Place de Valois for news, the jani- 
tor said: 

4 ‘There’s nobody there now!” 

“What?” 

“Monsieur and Madame Klipper have gone.” 

“Gone? And where are they?” 

“We don’t know.” 

“In Strassburg?” 

“I don’t know.” 

■ ‘ Gap I speak to old Anna ? ’ ’ 

318 


DISAPPEARANCE 


1 ‘No. She isn’t here. She went with them. 
Oh ! she was too much attached to Monsieur Klip- 
per. And Madame Klipper, who is blind, needed her 
too much for her to leave her. That good Anna 
is a woman who would deserve the Montyon prize . 9 1 

“And if I write to the doctor?” 

“He will not receive your letter.” 

“If I write to him here?” 

The janitor pointed to the notice he was going 
to put on the door of number 4 : 

“Apartment to let. The apartment is empty, and 
Madame Klipper would not give us her new address.” 

“Then no one can know — ” 

“No one!” 

“Not even I!” 

Andre returned home very sorrowful. It seemed 
as if he had lost a lifelong friend. He was robbed 
of an affection, a reason for showing a human being 
his hourly gratitude. 

When he told Cecile what had been said to him, 
with the admirable instinct women possess when 
they love, she divined the truth. 

She divined that Marthe wished to hide some 
diminution of Klipper ’s genius, as she herself would 
have concealed the sinister attacks of Andre Fortis 
in the time of The Other — that Other whom Klip- „ 
per had driven away forever. 

319 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


4 4 If they don’t wish to have people know where 
they have taken refuge, we must not seek,” she said. 
“ Misfortune has its modesty as well as love.” 

But with a sob interrupting his words, Andre 
came to Cecile one morning holding out a newspaper, 
where his nail marked a passage, and said : 

‘‘Look!” 

Frederic Clement announced in the Boulevard, 
the death, in a secluded spot of a suburb in Paris, 
of a man whom Paris did not know, but who, if 
he had lived, would have convulsed science, Dr. Jean 
Klipper, one of the irregulars of genius, who are 
the pioneers of the future. 

The doctor had died requesting that his funeral 
services should be without witnesses. No letters of 
invitation had been sent, Madame Klipper, as always, 
respecting her husband’s wishes. 

The journalist added: 

“Less will be said of the disappearance of this 
scientist who ( we formerly mentioned it briefly in 
one of our reports) was dreaming of adding a sup- 
plementary eye to the human race, of finding once 
more the eye of the Cyclops ; there will be less sen- 
sation over it than concerning the first perfom- 
ance of the operetta that is to be given this evening. 
And this is very natural. The operetta which is to 
appear will amuse with its music and its waltzes . 

320 


DISAPPEARANCE 

The scientist who departs makes less stir. Give way 
to the theater! But the man of genius will have 
his compensation , and we will undertake , on our part , 
to work for it.” 

Cecile had read the reporter’s article through 
her tears. She gave the paper back to her hus- 
band. 

Andre shook his head, his heart crushed, his eyes 
reddened. 

General de Jandrieu and his wife, who came to 
call, surprised their children amid the grief of this 
news. 

“What is it?” said the general, trying to laugh. 
“A family scene? You have been quarreling! 
You, a pattern couple!” 

“No,” said Cecile, “oh! there is only joy with 
us. But we have lost a man to whom we owe the 
greater part of this happiness ! ’ 9 
“A man of genius,” said Andre. 

The general, surprised, shrugged his shoulders. 

“I have seen so many dead men, so many, so many. 
I was thinking of it this very morning, the 18th of Au- 
gust, the anniversary of Gravelotte ! One must be an 
old relic to think of Gravelotte, eh! my children! 
— Yet I do think of it! — Your Dr. Klipper is dead! 
— Each in his turn! We must always be ready, 
saddled, packed, bridled.” 

321 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


“But this man did not kill, he saved !” cried 
Andre. “A man of genius !” 

“I have often wondered what is meant by a man 
of genius,’ ’ said the general, ironically grave. “Do 
you want me to tell you? It is a man who is not 
known!” 


XVI 


THE STATUE OF THE LIVING DEAD 

Death resembles the night which kindles the stars. 
It suddenly makes the name of the man unknown 
the day before shine brilliantly. An unexpected 
light issues from the tomb. 

Scarcely had the report of Dr. Klipper’s tragical 
end been spread abroad, than laudatory biographies 
informed the masses of the extraordinary importance 
of the unknown man whom science had just lost. 
The professional magazines enumerated the studies 
of the investigator, and the official scientists eulo- 
gized the discoveries of this independent who had 
fought in the vanguard, working alone and in the 
shadow. And the public at large learned with be- 
wilderment that it had elbowed, without suspecting it, 
a man who would have deserved a statue. 

A statue ! The idea did not fall into empty space. 
The Revue des Sciences Nouvelles having printed 
the word under Dr. Chardin’s signature, the Parisian 
press took up the project. Frederic Clement, the 
head of the numerous reporters of the Boulevard , 
323 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


began by a very touching preface and a series of 
interviews upon the life and works of Jean Klipper. 
After having, like a good journalist, made game of 
the fever for statues, the statuomania that rages at 
the present day, he questioned the majority of the 
great scientists as to whether the child of Strassburg, 
after having devoted a whole existence to science, 
after having lived and suffered for it, deserved a 
pedestal, an image in a public square or not. 

Almost all the answers published in the Boule- 
vard were in favor of a manifestation in Klip- 
per ’s honor. Bust or statue, the Alsatian scholar 
deserved some tribute. And for an entire week, 
Paris, between two conversations upon the recent 
first night and the latest scandal, Paris slightly for- 
getting the stage, the fashionable crimes, and the 
examinations of the magistrates, occupied itself with 
Dr. Klipper as if the point in question were an actor 
on a poster, an Apache who had committed another 
crime, or a heroine of some restaurant affair. 

Besides, Frederic Clement, with much art, had 
presented as possible, as probable, the remarkable 
discovery of Dr. Klipper in endowing mankind with 
a third eye, a third window open upon the life of 
the universe. The reporter had entitled his series 
of articles, his visits, and interviews: A magician of 
the XIX century ,, and thanks to him, to the masses 
324 


THE STATUE OF THE LIVING DEAD 


the investigator’s figure had assumed the fantastic 
aspect of another Dr. Faust bending over his alem- 
bics. The public, interested by Klipper ’s life and 
death, had read this dramatized biography and the 
successive opinions of the scientists, as it would have 
devoured a serial romance by Wells or Rudyard Kip- 
ling. 

“How had such a man lived in the midst of Paris 
without having the fame that goes directly to politi- 
cians or writers , send to this brow henceforth cold , 
to this name henceforth celebrated , one ray of that 
renown which it lavishes upon the ordinary, the 
climbers, and the adventurers?” 

Frederic Clement developed this theme with ve- 
hemence, rousing public opinion. People were irri- 
tated at the injustice of fate. All the misunderstood, 
the defeated, those whom fortune left in the lurch, 
incarnated their demands in this unknown genius, 
Jean Klipper. And very naturally, the wrath of 
Paris against the ignorance of man, and the injustice 
of fate, reverberated in Alsace. Klipper ’s country- 
men felt both more proud and more sorrowful than 
the Parisians themselves over that destiny whose 
glory was reflected upon their beloved little native 
land. “It is in France that he struggled, in France 
that he will rest,” said the Journal d f Alsace, “but 
Alsace gave him birth.” 


325 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Then the idea grew, expressed by the Alsacien - 
Lorraine , to erect in Strassburg a monument to the 
scientist whom the Academies and the French 
periodicals were thus hailing as a harbinger. A 
committee was very quickly formed that sent out 
an appeal for funds and, in the emotion aroused by 
Frederic Clement’s 4 ‘Inquest,” the subscription 
rapidly mounted to quite a considerable sum. 
Enough money to erect a statue was very speedily 
obtained. 

A statue to Jean Klipper in this Strassburg which 
had not raised one to Koeberle! Controversies now 
began. Patriotic rivalries were concealed under 
singular pretexts. The German authorities feared 
that students of Alsatian race and French hearts 
might profit by the inauguration of this statue to 
offer significant wreaths and pay the homage which 
these young men, every Christmas midnight, gave 
to the statue of Kleber. And really had Jean 
Flipper, with his visions, admirable, perhaps, but 
merely visions, deserved the same honor as this Jean 
Gutenberg, whose bronze image Strassburg had for- 
merly solemnly saluted “in the time of the French”? 

At last an agreement was reached by accepting 
a compromise. The partisans of the statue gave up 
the pedestal, the adversaries accepted the proposal 
of a bust — a bronze bust set in the wall of the house 
326 


THE STATUE OF THE LIVING DEAD 


where the scientist was born, and beneath the effigy 
an inscription informing the passer-by that this was 
Jean Klipper’s birthplace. 

The tribute was as solemn and, for the German 
government, the ceremony no longer had the same 
popular and consequently perilous character. The 
inauguration of a bust in a little street in Old 
Strassburg could not attract as large a crowd as a 
statue erected in a public square. 

“It is a semi-danger, ’ ’ said the German papers. 

“And a semi-concession, ’ ’ answered, scarcely sat- 
isfied, the Alsatian committee. 

Klipper’s bust, executed by a young Strassburg 
sculptor from an admirable sketch formerly made 
from life by J. J. Henner, had been exhibited in 
the Salon. It well represented the peculiar counte- 
nance, the pensive gauntness of this Michelet or 
Mommsen-like visage. And the critics had had no 
great difficulty in discerning, too late, beneath the 
thoughtful brow, the man of genius. 

The citizens of Strassburg, as ignorant of Dr. 
Klipper’s investigations as the Parisians, saw in the 
tribute rendered only a remembrance given to one 
of their countrymen living and dying on the other 
side , a son of Alsace transplanted to the great city. 
It seemed to them that, beyond the frontier, Paris 
was sending back, gloried and greater, a child of 
22 327 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


the native land. And it was in truth the native land 
which had received, if not welcomed the scientist bent 
over his investigations. It was Paris that, a little 
later, had discovered Jean Klipper and restored him 
to Strassburg, enveloped in glory, — a tardy, a post- 
humous glory. What destiny gives you must be ac- 
cepted. 

It was a great holiday when the committee escorted 
from the station to the Rue de la Mesange the Paris 
delegates who had come to salute the image of Jean 
Klipper. The residents of Strassburg draped with 
flags of the colors of their country — red and white 
— the neighboring windows. In this Strassburg flag 
a third color was lacking, a color which the 
pretty girls wore on their bosoms by adding corn- 
flowers to the poppies and white daisies. But it was 
at least Alsace with her flag waving in the sun- 
shine welcoming an Alsatian. 

Dr. Chardin had hastened from Paris, desiring to 
pay the departed scientist the debt of science. He 
would speak, not in the name of the Academy of 
Medicine, but in his own person. The testimony 
of an official representative of French science was 
no less important. It was a master saluting a mas- 
ter. 

The Boulevard reporter, Frederic Clement, who 
was prevented from taking the journey to Alsace be- 
328 


THE STATUE OE THE LIVING DEAD 


cause, on the same day, a Theatre of Nature was to 
be opened with a translation from the Greek at a 
watering-place, had telegraphed after reading the 
proof sheets of the speech sent to the paper : 

“It is a splendid page, dear Doctor. When people 
can speak in this way, they are ready for the trib- 
une !” 

Perhaps Chardin was of the same opinion. 

And Andre Fortis had desired to take, with Cecile, 
the journey to Strassburg that was to him like a 
pilgrimage of gratitude. All his peace of mind, 
his liberation, his deliverance, the joy he now had 
in life, in keeping his youth, in loving the exqui- 
site creature who was his wife, in hoping for 
children, in giving himself completely to his art, in 
having seen the specter fly forever — this calmness, 
these hopes, this new existence, he owed to Jean 
Klipper. The devotion he could no longer show the 
scientist, since death had summoned him, he desired 
to convey, transformed into grateful admiration, to 
the house where he was born. So, in the very first 
row of spectators, stood the artist and his wife. 

The veil that covered the bust placed above the 
entrance door of the old building allowed, like a 
winding sheet, only confused, phantom-like outlines 
to be seen. Forced into the street and kept there 
by policemen, the crowd gazed impatiently at this 
329 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


hidden bust, which was to show them the unknown 
features of a countryman whose story or rather 
legend, they told each other. Some of the “old 
folks” had known little Klipper when, a mere child, 
he was romping in the street in front of his father’s 
cutler’s shop. Since then, it seems, he had become 
a great, very great scientist down there, in Paris! 
“A member of the Institute,” some said. “Of the 
Institute, like Pasteur,” others answered. They 
did not know that Klipper was only Klipper. 

Andre, under a beautiful clear spring sky, was 
looking at this street with its picturesque perspec- 
tives, the crowd of pretty girls with pleasant, calm, 
fair faces; the sturdy, thick-set, square-shouldered 
young fellows, the flags waving at the windows, and 
in these windows, as in the pictures of the Middle 
Ages, odd countenances, profiles of old women, and 
the chubby faces of children eagerly watching the 
spectacle in the street. 

But Andre suddenly thought himself bewildered. 


XVII 


THE APOTHEOSIS 

“Look! Look!” cried Andre to Cecile, pressing 
her arm. 

At one of the windows of a room opposite to the 
house where Dr. Klipper was born, he had just 
seen, yes, the longer he gazed the more he thought he 
recognized a man with emaciated features, framed by 
white hair falling on his shoulders, a man with a bony 
face whose eyes were fixed steadily, as if hypnotized, 
upon the dwelling which concentrated the entire at- 
tention of this crowd. And — incredible occurrence 
— this man resembled feature for feature Jean Klip- 
per in person. Yes, it was another Klipper. The 
brother garbed in black who resembles the visionary 
poet like a brother. 

“It is impossible! But, if Klipper were not dead, 
I should say : 4 That is he/ ’ ’ 

And what rendered the apparition wholly im- 
probable, maddening, was that, beside this thin, 
pallid countenance like Klipper ’s, with hair perhaps 
longer than formerly, another face was framed in 
331 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


the open window, the face of a fair-haired young 
woman, also thin, sorrowful, extremely wan, which 
summoned up the very visage of Marthe. 

Or rather, no, it did not summon it. That was 
Marthe herself. Marthe with the red spot on her 
forehead like the admirable stigmata of her devo- 
tion and her martyrdom. 

Only one woman in the world resembled the 
one seen yonder. One woman alone bore on her 
brow the cicatrice of science. There could be no 
doubt of it, the woman yonder was Marthe Klipper. 

But then the man who was leaning his face 
toward her shoulder, the one who appeared by her 
side under the locks of an old man, was Jean Klip- 
per himself, Klipper alive, the very Jean Klipper 
whose bust a whole populace was about to salute 
while lauding his memory. 

“I am not mistaken, Cecile!” said Fortis in a 
very low tone, his voice choked like that of a child 
who saw a ghost. 

“No,” replied Cecile. “It is incredible, but one 
would swear it was he ! ’ ’ 

“And she, her forehead, the red spot — it is Jean 
Klipper, and it is his wife!” 

“ It is terrible, ’ ’ said Cecile. 

They were not the sport of a hallucination. Both 
saw at the same time this couple no one noticed, 
332 


THE APOTHEOSIS 


toward whom no glance strayed, and who from the 
window overlooked the throng, he with his eyes 
riveted upon the green serge covering, she cast- 
ing upon the eddying multitude of curious people 
and strangers a look that did not see, and which 
seemed to be seeking in the darkness some familiar 
faces. 

Behind Marthe appeared another figure, a woman 
who both gazed and saw, old Anna, the faithful, 
devoted maid-servant. Then Andre and his wife, 
to attract the maid’s attention better — if it was 
she, and it was — separated from the line of specta- 
tors and took several steps forward into the empty 
space between the crowd and the house. 

No one would notice that they both raised their 
heads toward the same window on the opposite side 
of the street. But, as they scrutinized with visible 
intentness the man and woman leaning over the 
balcony, old Anna perceived the bewildered, yet 
searching gaze. 

The servant, in a very low tone, said two or three 
words in Marthe ’s ear, as if she were pointing out 
some one in the crowd. 

Andre saw Marthe flush, and draw back a little, 
while the man, motionless, his eyes steadily fixed, 
had not made a movement, remaining there as if 
petrified. 


333 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


Then, as the eyes of Andre and Cecile never 
turned from these two beings, the woman, to whom 
old Anna continued to talk, gently raised her hand 
to her mouth, placed two fingers on her lips, with 
a gesture replacing the look, which, if it could have 
expressed her thought, would have been full of 
entreaty. The poor martyr made the sign of silence, 
imploring from the distance, as if through, above 
the crowd, Monsieur and Madame Fortis had just 
divined some mournful secret. 

The fingers on the lips, even those eyes, lifeless 
as if set, petrified by dread, all implored, all seemed 
to say: 

“Not one word! Leave us! Incognito, forget- 
fulness, is the favor I beseech from you!” 

Then Andre saw the woman’s little hand rest on 
the old man’s shoulder, draw him into the room, and 
the window slowly closed, revealing only through 
the panes, between the white draped curtains, two 
pallid faces framed there as if by winding-sheets. 

The servant vanished in the shadow. 

“It is he! It is Jean Klipper!” repeated Andre. 

“It certainly is he!” said Cecile. 

Suddenly they divined a terrible drama, the 
tempest that must have raged in Marthe Klipper ’s 
brain when the disaster had happened! The scien- 
tist, the man so worshiped and revered, the glory 
334 


THE APOTHEOSIS 


of her life, recovering from his fall only to drag 
on a heart-rending existence, surviving in the state 
of a phantom, a mask, a human rag ! Without 
ideas, perhaps without words, the brain empty, the 
lips silent, removed, dazed, suppressed from the 
world of intellect, while trailing his corpse through 
the universe of living men ! 

Yes, that was it, that must be it. Klipper had 
survived, and Marthe Klipper was not willing to 
have people know how he had lived. And on the 
great day of a public festival was displayed this 
amazing spectacle : a man supposed to be dead, 
whose death was 1 proved by biographical diction- 
aries, giving the exact date, this man had survived 
his necrology, reappeared in flesh and blood, no phan- 
tom but, from head to foot, alive, present at his own 
apotheosis. 

Alive? The ravaged face, the fixed eyes, the ex- 
pression of bewilderment that gave this emaciated 
countenance the appearance of a motionless mask, 
were they really those of a living man? 

No, no, the soul was absent, the brain no longer 
thought, and (Fortis divined it from the distance) 
the form that stood there, which could now be seen 
through the panes, a pallid, haggard mask, was 
nothing but the specter of Jean Klipper. 

A step missed by a foot stumbling in the darkness, 

335 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


and night forever reigned in a being designed for 
immortality. 

Suddenly in the distance appeared a procession, 
with banners waving above the crowd. It was the 
Committee of the Klipper Monument arriving, old 
residents of Strassburg, contemporaries and play- 
mates of the scientist, marching at the head, and 
among them Dr. Chardin, wearing a white cravat, 
not having put on his uniform as an Academician, 
in which the Alsatians would have found again on 
the hat the tricolored cockade. The solitary toiler 
whom they were going to honor was not an official . 

Bugles sounded a thrilling march, Sambre-et- 
Meuse. One might have thought it a festival of 
former days, of the old times. 

The procession stopped in front of the ancient 
house, the crowd pressing as near the threshold as 
possible, and Andre found himself pushed with Cecile 
close to Chardin, who had bowed to them, smiling 
with his red lips, a pleasant, calm face, so different 
from the tortured one of Klipper. 

Then, at a sign from the chairman of the Com- 
mittee, the serge covering, drawn by a cord, slowly 
fell, while a brass band, stationed near the door, 
played with all its instruments an old Alsatian air. 

Klipper *s bust, fastened into a recently hollowed 
niche in the wall, shone out, and Andre again found 
336 


THE APOTHEOSIS 


in the young sculptor’s strangely lifelike work, 
the features, the expression, the very look — a black 
look hollowed in the bronze — of the singular man 
of genius whom he had seen in that cellar in the 
Cour de Valois, his subterranean laboratory, like a 
kobold of science. 

The bust had the same slightly peculiar fantastic 
poesy of the inspired little man. The hair seemed 
to wave, the lips seemed to move, the eyes seemed 
to see. It was a masterpiece. ‘‘A resurrection,” 
said the doctor, who, unfolding a paper taken from 
his pocket, was already beginning his speech. 

At the foot of the bronze bust, an inscription in 
golden letters glittered on a marble slab : 

TO JEAN KLIPPER 

DOCTOR AND PHILOSOPHER 
BORN AT STRASSBURG, DECEMBER 3d, 1840 
DIED AT PARIS OCTOBER 31ST, 1903. 

TO THE SON OF ALSACE 
HIS GRATEFUL COUNTRYMEN 
TO THE SCIENTIST 
HIS LOYAL ADMIRERS. 

1 1 Resurrection ! ” It was the word Chardin 
uttered, it was the impression felt by the very few 
among those present who had known Jean Klipper. 

Andre Fortis heard, adding their friendly corn- 
337 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


ments to the cheers that greeted Dr. Chardin’s 
praises, expressions of regret and sorrow: “What 
a misfortune that such men disappear!” And 
Chardin dwelt upon the disaster Klipper’s death had 
been to science: 

“At his age, Gentlemen, the human brain is far 
from having given its full measure. Imagine 
Pasteur, our admirable Pasteur, finishing his life 
at the same age as Jean Klipper. How many dis- 
coveries would have remained unknown ! How 
many lives would have been doomed to death! And 
yet Pasteur was almost lost to his native land and 
to all mankind. Suppose that when he had his 
first attack, a little drop of blood, one atom more 
had reached this marvelous brain, so many dis- 
coveries, so much genius would have been sup- 
pressed. The clearest, the keenest, the deepest, the 
most ‘divinatory’ intelligence, I say, would have 
sunk into darkness. 

“Jean Klipper has not fulfilled his destiny. A 
trifling accident, an ordinary fall on a staircase — 
wretched chance — rudely ended a life still so full 
of projected works, discoveries glimpsed, or rather 
sketched, and which will be pursued to realization. 
Klipper had lived unknown. The hour was about 
to strike when he was to be famous, and honors 
would succeed trials. And he died. 

338 


THE APOTHEOSIS 


“Honors! I am using, Gentlemen, a word that 
our beloved and great fellow-countryman would have 
repelled. Jean Klipper sought only the rugged 
duties of toil. Honors, to him, meant work in his 
dark laboratory, the instruments of labor he manu- 
factured himself, as ingenious in constructing ap- 
paratus within an old dark room as in analyzing, in 
infinite space, the light of the stars. 

“He might have been rich, he might have had 
titles and subsidies. He never asked anything of 
anyone. 

“But, if he did not have the present and what 
has been called ‘ready money glory,’ he will have 
the future, and its posterity that salutes him to-day 
in this solemn and heartfelt ceremony in which 
Alsace greets the image of one of her glorious sons, 
who left this corner of earth when very young, 
and in which France salutes the child who became 
with her an immortal old man!” 

Dr. Chardin’s address closed in a tempest of 
cheers that emphasized the words of the scientist 
thus lauding the forerunner, and the band struck 
up a French air, Gounod’s chorus in Faust. 

“Glory immortal 
Of our ancestors.” 

While Cecile, closing her eyes, was once more 
seeing the marble image of the musician so many 
339 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


times dimly perceived through the trees in the Park 
Monceau — how many memories lingered there — 
Andre was watching the pale face pressed against 
the panes above, the face of Jean Klipper, who re- 
appeared motionless, with fixed eyes. 

Then, when the ceremony was ended, when the 
official procession had gone, when only a few curious 
persons remained before the house, passers-by com- 
ing to read the slab, examine, criticise, or praise the 
bust, Andre thanked Chardin, who rolled up his 
manuscript and thrust it into the pocket of his over- 
coat. 

“I was very sure that I should meet you here,” 
the physician said to the artist. 

“ Certainly. I shall never forget what I owe 
you, nor what I owe him. It is said that the sick 
are forgetful. Not at all. I am no ingrate.” 

Andre was tempted to question Chardin, to tell 
him of this apparition that gave the ceremony a 
fantastic character. But Chardin was doubtless 
ignorant of everything, since officially he came, with 
sincere emotion, to deplore Klipper ’s death. The 
wan face was no longer visible behind the closed 
window. Then why should he betray such a secret? 

“I am going back this evening,” said Chardin. 
“ Shall you return to Paris with me?” 

340 


THE APOTHEOSIS 


4 ‘Yes, Doctor. But, first I want to call on some- 
one. We will meet at the train.” 

The call was like a pilgrimage to a tomb — a stop 
in this house where, in the midst of a day of tri- 
umph, the specter of Jean Klipper showed himself. 

Andre and Cecile, as much agitated as on the 
day of their first visit to Dr. Klipper, went up the 
narrow stairs of the Alsatian house where Marthe 
had come to stop a short time with the famous man 
whose name she bore. 

Andre laid his hand on the wooden railing, saying : 

‘ ‘ Have we the right to disturb their silence ? ’ ’ 

He had hesitated a moment before ringing the bell 
on the second story — the one from which Jean 
Klipper ’s eyes had watched the ceremony without 
understanding it. If Marthe should say to them: 
“By what right do you come to spy upon our suf- 
fering, to divine our secret?” 

“Let us go!” he said. 

Quite a long time passed before the carved door 
in the eighteenth century wainscoting opened. 
Then Marthe Klipper ’s face, mournful and terrified, 
appeared. Behind her was old Anna, who said to 
her mistress: 

“It is they!” 

The poor blind wife, with the stigmatized brow, 
341 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


again put her finger on her lips, as she had done just 
now. 

Then she said: 

“Come in!’’ 

Her voice was low, as if she were faint, exhausted. 

Anna asked Monsieur and Madame Fortis to sit 
down in a little drawing-room whose curtains she 
had drawn ; then Marthe said gently : 

“You have seen?” 

There was a whole poem of sorrow, of infinite 
anguish, in the three words. 

Andre’s only answer was to bow assent. 

“At that time?” said Ceeile. 

“You will swear to keep the secret?” 

“What concerns you, concerns us,” said Andre; 
“what is your duty is our duty. I owe my life to 
Jean Klipper.” 

“And it was in saving others, in trying to re- 
store light, sight, to me, that he fell — ” 

Then the blind wife related the drama of this 
destiny. A lesion of the brain disturbed the reason 
of the old seeker of the impossible. After his fall 
he remained motionless for hours, his eyes fixed as 
if looking into space, questioning with his gaze 
some invisible object. Then one day, in a fit of sud- 
den fury, contrasting strangely with this sort of 
gently resigned torpor, as if consciousness had re- 
342 


THE APOTHEOSIS 


turned and with this revelation of his condition, 
dreading his decline, distracted by grief and horror, 
shaken by the keen desire to end it all, to escape 
by death, from stupidity and loss of mind, he 
opened the window with a madman’s gesture, and 
shouting: “I am free,’ he threw himself down to 
the pavement of the courtyard. A crushed body 
was picked up. And the newspapers then an- 
nounced the death of the scientist, but the news 
was lost in the uproar of an interpellation in the 
Chamber, and the excitement of a sensational first 
night. The necrological notices briefly buried Jean 
Klipper, to whom the biographical dictionaries of 
Leipsic and London devoted an extensive account, 
mentioning the list of his works, the date of his 
first experiments, the date of the death, 

Officially, therefore, this soldier of the vanguard 
of science, Jean Klipper, was dead. Yet he lived, 
survived, and was leading a vegetative existence and, 
in Montrouge, Marthe Klipper, — turning all her sav- 
ings into cash, selling everything, clothes and books, 
— found a boarding-house where, after investing 
her scanty stock of money in an annuity, she lived, 
they lived under another name, ‘‘Monsieur and 
Madame Durand.” It should not be said that this 
Jean Klipper, whose genius was vaunted when sud- 
denly discovering it by the funereal light of post- 
23 343 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


humous fame, was no longer anything but a fool- 
ish, incurable old man, stammering disconnected 
words, as far from humanity as the beast of burden 
and the idiot. 

Ah! rather than confess this catastrophe, this loss 
of reason, this horror, Marthe, proud of Klipper ’s 
renown, would have lighted a brasier and asphyxi- 
ated herself with the worshiped being thus re- 
duced to be nothing more than a phantom of him- 
self. She had thought of it. Then she said to her- 
self: “Patience; everything comes, and death is 
certain.” 

And lo! one morning she had learned that Strass- 
burg was going to celebrate the memory of her child. 
People read to her in the boarding-house at Mon- 
trouge the preparations for the ceremony, the pro- 
gramme of the festival: Inauguration of the bust of 
Dr. Klipper. She experienced terrible suffering in 
repeating what was learned to Klipper, who did 
not understand, did not comprehend, was brutally 
banished from the world of living men. 

But, whatever grief she might feel, she wanted 
to be present when the image of Jean Klipper should 
appear triumphantly before the eyes of his country- 
men! She wanted him, too, to be there; the living 
dead man attending his own apotheosis. 

Guided by old Anna, who often came to see her 
344 


THE APOTHEOSIS 


former employers, and who thus traveled with 
“Monsieur and Madame Durand,” she set out for 
Strassburg, dragged to his birthplace this unconscious 
form of the absent genius with the fixed eyes, as in- 
capable of judging what he saw as those of the 
blind wife. And Marthe Klipper realized that in- 
credible, that horrible living irony: a man believed 
dead being present, unconscious of the cause, alas! 
but in flesh and blood, at the inauguration of his own 
image, the glorification of his memory! 

“It is terrible,” Cecile repeated, as she had said 
just before. 

The blind wife answered: 

“I do not know of any torture more cruel, and yet 
more sweet. When those musicians were playing, 
there was a moment when I said to myself: ‘At last 
they are doing him justice!’ Then: ‘But he does 
not understand, he does not know it. He is there 
without being there!’ And again: ‘It is I, per- 
haps it is I, who am the cause of this horror! It is 
for me that he used his brain, found madness, sought 
suicide, met that death which leaves him alive ! ’ ” 

And as the relatives who have just lost some dear 
one lead you to the deathbed, Marthe asked : 

“Do you want to see him?” 

Cecile shuddered. What if this apparition should 
awaken in Andre one of his former attacks? 

345 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


But Fortis ’s voice was calm, and Cecile was re- 
assured when he said: 

“Yes, I should like to cry ‘thank you’ to him once 
more. ’ 7 

Leaning on Anna's arm, the blind woman then 
went to a door and opened it. 

Jean Klipper was still standing at the window, his 
face against the panes, looking — at what? — the slab, 
the bust, the street, the passers-by, seeing nothing, 
thinking of nothing. 

Marthe called him: 

“Jean!” 

He turned mechanically at the sweet, familiar 
tones, and Andre and his wife advancing toward him, 
he bowed to them, bowed without recognizing them, 
his lips uttering guttural sounds. 

“Yours with all our gratitude, Doctor!” 

It was Andre who spoke, deeply agitated and grave. 

The old man, pushing aside the long hair that fell 
over his forehead, looked at him with his dull eyes. 
Ah ! where was the clear, penetrating glance of former 
days? 

“It is I, Doctor! I, Andre Fortis! Fortis whom 
you cured, saved — ” 

The old man ’s lips tried to repeat the name. Noth- 
ing issued from them but incomprehensible syllables : 
‘ ‘ An — An — Fo — For — ’ ’ 


346 


THE APOTHEOSIS 


“You see,” said Marthe, in her faint, trembling 
voice. 

Then Cecile, kneeling before this man — brain va- 
cant, great heart gone — took the thin hand with the 
prominent veins that Jean Klipper let fall by his 
side, and gently raised it to her lips, gazing through 
her tears at the genius who was now only an inert, 
mindless being, and said to the unfortunate man lost 
in darkness, drowned as if in a sea: 

“May your great name be blessed, you who have 
sacrificed yourself for others!” 

But Klipper withdrew his hand like a frightened 
child, and looked at this kneeling woman as if she 
might have wished to harm him — then, still active, 
he ran to Marthe and sought shelter in her arms, 
bewildered, terrified by the presence of these strangers 
whom he did not recognize. 

The spectacle was too cruel. Never, perhaps, had 
the savage irony of Nature invented a more atrocious 
torture, and it seemed as if, irritated and implacable, 
she were avenging herself upon the human being who 
had sought to conquer her. She struck at the brain, 
as the executioner at the head, the trained assassin 
at the heart. 

“Let us go!” said Andre Fortis, with a choking 
sensation in his throat. 

“Let us go,” said Cecile. 

347 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


She kissed on the brow, upon the red stigmata of 
Klipper’s experiments, poor Marthe, who again re- 
peated : 

“You will say nothing ?” 

“Nothing.” 

“To no one?” 

“To no one.” 

“You will swear it?” 

“We will swear it to you, Madame.” 

And they left the little house. Marthe and Klip- 
per were going to leave to return to the Montrouge 
boarding house of “Monsieur and Madame Durand” 
— the martyr and the man of genius, the two van- 
quished ones united in a common sorrow. 

People were still standing in front of the old birth- 
place, gazing at the bust of the child of Strassburg 
whom Paris, great Paris, had christened “great man.” 



“Dr. Chardin and his former patient were talking of the man whose 
bust had just been inaugurated 



XVIII 


AND LIFE GOES ON 

That evening, in the train that was carrying them 
into France — and they shook their heads while re- 
peating the words “into France” — Dr. Chardin and 
his former patient were talking of the man whose 
bust -had just been inaugurated, of the incidents and 
emotions of the day, while through the windows vague 
landscapes, stations, cities flitted past — and Chardin 
repeated in a less formal manner of expression what 
he had stated more academically that morning in his 
official speech: 

“Really, I do not know of a more amazing brain 
than this Klipper’s. He had genius. I said truly, 
and I repeat it, genius !” 

“Then, if he had lived, Doctor?” 

“He would have astounded us all by his discover- 
ies. People will return to his third eye, you will see, 
and who knows? perhaps some day Klipper will be 
hailed by the name of Klipper the Cyclops! Ah! 
that marvelous brain! Admirably organized, solid, 
imperturbable. It is not he, ah! no, not he, who 
349 ^ 


WHICH IS MY HUSBAND? 


would have been attacked by the famous modem 
neurosis !” 

Cecile and Andre exchanged a look under the elec- 
tric light of the car. 

“Then,” said Andre, “there are brains which the 
disease never attacks.” 

“ Oh ! never is a word that belongs to no language, ’ ’ 
replied the scientist. “But Klipper was one of those 
persons who crush illness, and do not even know it! 
See the difference ! I relieved, he has cured you ! A 
genius, I repeat, a genius! And what, alas! is the 
end of this genius?” 

“Science has its hostages,” replied Andre. “He 
was one of them. Pshaw! Paris awaits us, and we, 
too, are hostages of toil. ‘To arms!’ as Julien Sorel 
said. ’ ’ 

While the train was rolling on, the artist was 
thinking of the works to be done, of all that life of 
joyous labor — of labor and also love which he had 
before him, and of that tomb at Saint-Laurent-du- 
Pont, where slept The Other , the being whom Jean 
Klipper had sealed there forever, like those vampires 
into whose hearts a sharp spear was thrust to prevent 
their reappearance. 


THE END 


( 1 ) 


a 
















NOVELS BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 

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Illustrated by A. B. Wenzell, Color Inlay by Harrison 
Fisher on Cover. i2mo, Cloth, $1.50. 

A wayward girl, heiress to a great fortune, falls deeply in love with 
an artist of small means, who does not seem to reciprocate her feeling. 
Her father intervenes. The girl, who, like her mother, has always been 
accustomed to bow to her father’s aggressive will, now defies him utterly 
and leaves her home. The artist remains unaware of the havoc he has 
created. He is friendly in a manner toward the girl and trr'es to act as 
a sort of elder brother and counselor in her perplexities. The working 
up and working out of this tangled situation is accomplished in a masterly 
way, and with the intense and dramatic situations which readers have 
learned to look for from Mr. Phillips. 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW FORK 


ff 6 


86 ’ H| 


1 


467 













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